• 

it 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


STAtENORMA! 

llOS  RfiGEWSS,  CRI»,. 


s 


ON  THE  FRONTIER 


BRET   HARTE 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
(ftije  liinersiDe  |3re^0, 

1907 


Copyright,  1884, 
BY  BRET   HARTE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


PS 


j 

CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

1  AT  THE   MISSION  OF   SAN  CARMEL       ....    5 

t  A   &LUE  GRASS  PENELOPE 91 

*    LE,FT  OUT  ON   LONE   STAR  MOUNTAIN     .    .     .225 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN 
CARMEL. 

I  b  Q  b  £ 

PROLOGUE. 

IT  was  noon  of  the  10th  of  August,  18380 
The  monotonous  coast  line  between  Mon- 
terey and  San  Diego  had  set  its  hard  out- 
lines against  the  steady  glare  of  the  Cali- 
fornian  sky  and  the  metallic  glitter  of  the 
^   Pacific    Ocean.     The   weary  succession  of 
^  rounded,    dome-like    hills    obliterated    all 
^  sense  of  distance  ;  the  rare  whaling  vessel 
'   or   still  rarer  trader,  drifting  past,  saw  no 
change  in  these  rusty  undulations,  barren 
of   distinguishing   peak   or   headland,  and 
bald  of  wooded  crest  or   timbered  ravine. 
The  withered  ranks  of  wild  oats  gave  a  dull 


6         AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

procession  of  uniform  color  to  the  hills,  un- 
broken by  any  relief  of  shadow  in  their 
smooth,  round  curves.  As  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  sea  and  shore  met  in  one  bleak 
monotony,  flecked  by  no  passing  cloud, 
stirred  by  no  sign  of  life  or  motion.  Even 
sound  was  absent ;  the  Angelus,  rung  from 
the  invisible  Mission  tower  far  inland,  was 
driven  back  again  by  the  steady  northwest 
trades,  that  for  half  the  year  had  swept 
the  coast  line  and  left  it  abraded  of  all  um- 
brage and  color. 

But  even  this  monotony  soon  gave  way 
to  a  change  and  another  monotony  as  uni- 
form and  depressing.  The  western  horizon, 
slowly  contracting  before  a  wall  of  vapor, 
by  four  o'clock  had  become  a  mere  cold, 
steely  strip  of  sea,  into  which  gradually  the 
northern  trend  of  the  coast  faded  and  was 
lost.  As  the  fog  stole  with  soft  step  south- 
ward, all  distance,  space,  character,  and  lo- 
cality again  vanished ;  the  hills  upon  which 
the  sun  still  shone  bore  the  same  mono  to- 


AT   THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.         7 

nous  outlines  as  those  just  wiped  into  space. 
Last  of  all,  before  the  red  sun  sank  like  the 
descending  Host,  it  gleamed  upon  the  sails 
of  a  trading  vessel  close  in  shore.  It  was 
the  last  object  visible.  A  damp  breath 
breathed  upon  it,  a  soft  hand  passed  over 
the  slate,  the  sharp  pencilling  of  the  picture 
faded  and  became  a  confused  gray  cloud. 

The  wind  and  waves,  too,  went  down  in 
the  fog ;  the  now  invisible  and  hushed 
breakers  occasionally  sent  the  surf  over  the 
sand  in  a  quick  whisper,  with  grave  inter- 
vals of  silence,  but  with  no  continuous  mur- 
mur as  before.  In  a  curving  bight  of  the 
shore  the  creaking  of  oars  in  their  rowlocks 
began  to  be  distinctly  heard,  but  the  boat 
itself,  although  apparently  only  its  length 
from  the  sands,  was  invisible. 

"  Steady,  now ;  way  enough."  The  voice 
came  from  the  sea,  and  was  low,  as  if 
unconsciously  affected  by  the  fog.  "Si- 
lence ! " 

The  sound  of  a  keel  grating  the  sand  was 


8         AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

followed  by  the  order,  "  Stern  all !  "  from 
the  invisible  speaker. 

"Shall  we  beach  her?"  asked  another 
vague  voice. 

"  Not  yet.    Hail  again,  and  all  together." 

"  Ah  hoy  —  oi  —  oi  —  oy  !  " 

There  were  four  voices,  but  the  hail  ap- 
peared weak  and  ineffectual,  like  a  cry  in  a 
dream,  and  seemed  hardly  to  reach  beyond 
the  surf  before  it  was  suffocated  in  the 
creeping  cloud.  A  silence  followed,  but  no 
response. 

"  It 's  no  use  to  beach  her  and  go  ashore 
until  we  find  the  boat,"  said  the  first  voice, 
gravely  ;  "  and  we  '11  do  that  if  the  current 
has  brought  her  here.  Are.  you  sure 
you  've  got  the  right  bearings  ?  " 

"  As  near  as  a  man  could  off  a  shore 
with  not  a  blasted  pint  to  take  his  bearings 

by" 

There  was  a  long  silence  again,  broken 
only  by  the  occasional  dip  of  oars,  keeping 
the  invisible  boat-head  to  the  sea. 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       '  9 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  lads,  it 's  the  last 
we'll  see  of  that  boat  again,  or  of  Jack 
Cranch,  or  the  captain's  baby." 

"  It  does  look  mighty  queer  that  the 
painter  should  slip.  Jack  Cranch  ain't  the 
man  to  tie  a  granny  knot." 

"  Silence !  "  said  the  invisible  leader. 
"  Listen." 

A  hail,  so  faint  and  uncertain  that  it 
might  have  been  the  long-deferred,  far-off 
echo  of  their  own,  came  from  the  sea, 
abreast  of  them. 

"  It 's  the  captain.  He  has  n't  found 
anything,  or  he  couldn't  be  so  far  north. 
Hark ! " 

The  hail  was  repeated  again  faintly, 
dreamily.  To  the  seamen's  trained  ears  it 
seemed  to  have  an  intelligent  significance, 
for  the  first  voice  gravely  responded,  "  Aye, 
aye!  "  and  then  said  softly,  "  Oars." 

The  word  was  followed  by  a  splash.  The 
oars  clicked  sharply  and  simultaneously  in 
the  rowlocks,  then  more  faintly,  then  still 


10       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

fainter,  and  then  passed  out  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

The  silence  and  shadow  both  fell  to- 
gether ;  for  hours  sea  and  shore  were  im- 
penetrable. Yet  at  times  the  air  was 
softly  moved  and  troubled,  the  surrounding 
gloom  faintly  lightened  as  with  a  misty 
dawn,  and  then  was  dark  again ;  or  drowsy, 
far-off  cries  and  confused  noises  seemed  to 
grow  out  of  the  silence,  and,  when  they 
had  attracted  the  weary  ear,  sank  away  as 
in  a  mocking  dream,  and  showed  themselves 
unreal.  Nebulous  gatherings  in  the  fog 
seemed  to  indicate  stationary  objects  that, 
even  as  one  gazed,  moved  away ;  the  recur- 
ring lap  and  ripple  on  the  shingle  some- 
times took  upon  itself  the  semblance  of 
faint  articulate  laughter  or  spoken  words. 
But  towards  morning  a  certain  monotonous 
grating  on  the  sand,  that  had  for  many 
minutes  alternately  cheated  and  piqued  the 
ear,  asserted  itself  more  strongly,  and  a 
moving,  vacillating  shadow  in  the  gloom 
became  an  opaque  object  on  the  shore. 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       11 

With  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  light 
the  fog  lifted.  As  the  undraped  hills  one 
by  one  bared  their  cold  bosoms  to  the  sun, 
the  long  line  of  coast  struggled  back  to 
life  again.  Everything  was  unchanged,  ex- 
cept that  a  stranded  boat  lay  upon  the 
sands,  and  in  its  stern  sheets  a  sleeping 
child. 


The  10th  of  August,  1852,  brought  little 
change  to  the  dull  monotony  of  wind,  fog, 
and  treeless  coast  line.  Only  the  sea  was 
occasionally  flecked  with  racing  sails  that 
outstripped  the  old,  slow-creeping  trader, 
or  was  at  times  streaked  and  blurred  with 
the  trailing  smoke  of  a  steamer.  There 
were  a  few  strange  footprints  on  those  vir- 
gin sands,  and  a  fresh  track,  that  led  from 
the  beach  over  the  rounded  hills,  dropped 
into  the  bosky  recesses  of  a  hidden  valley 
beyond  the  coast  range. 


12       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

It  was  nere  that  the  refectory  windows 
of  the  Mission  of  San  Carmel  had  for  years 
looked  upon  the  reverse  of  that  monotonous 
picture  presented  to  the  sea.  It  was  here 
that  the  trade  winds,  shorn  of  their  fury 
and  strength  in  the  heated,  oven-like  air 
that  rose  from  the  valley,  lost  their  weary 
way  in  the  tangled  recesses  of  the  wooded 
slopes,  and  breathed  their  last  at  the  foot  of 
the  stone  cross  before  the  Mission.  It  was 
on  the  crest  of  those  slopes  that  the  fog 
halted  and  walled  in  the  sun-illumined 
plain  below  ;  it  was  in  this  plain  that  limit- 
less fields  of  grain  clothed  the  fat  adobe 
soil ;  here  the  Mission  garden  smiled  over 
its  hedges  of  fruitful  vines,  and  through 
the  leaves  of  fig  and  gnarled  pear  trees ;  and 
it  was  here  that  Father  Pedro  had  lived  for 
fifty  years,  found  the  prospect  good,  and 
had  smiled  also. 

Father  Pedro's  smile  was  rare.  He  was 
not  a  Las  Casas,  nor  a  Junipero  Serra,  but 
he  had  the  deep  seriousness  of  all  disciples 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       13 

laden  with  the  responsible  wording  of  a 
gospel  not  their  own.  And  his  smile  had 
an  ecclesiastical  as  well  as  a  human  signifi- 
cance, the  pleasantest  object  in  his  pros- 
pect being  the  fair  and  curly  head  of  his 
boy  acolyte  and  chorister,  Francisco,  which 
appeared  among  the  vines,  and  his  sweetest 
pastoral  music,  the  high  soprano  humming 
of  a  chant  with  which  the  boy  accompanied 
his  gardening. 

Suddenly  the  acolyte's  chant  changed  to 
a  cry  of  terror.  Running  rapidly  to  Father 
Pedro's  side,  he  grasped  his<;  sotan a^  and 
even  tried  to  hide  his  curls  among  its  folds. 

"  *St !  'st !  "  said  the  Padre,  disengaging 
himself  with  some  impatience.  "  What 
new  alarm  is  this  ?  Is  it  Luzbel  hiding 
among  our  Catalan  vines,  or  one  of  those 
heathen  Americanos  from  Monterey  ? 
Sgeak!" 

"  Neither,  holy  father,"  said  the  boy,  the 
color  struggling  back  into  his  pale  cheeks, 
and  an  apologetic,  bashful  smile  lighting 


14       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

his  clear  eyes.  "  Neither  ;  but  oh  !  such  a 
gross,  lethargic  toad !  And  it  almost  leaped 
upon  me." 

"  A  toad  leaped  upon  thee !  "  repeated 
the  good  father  with  evident  vexation. 
"  What  next  ?  I  tell  thee,_child^fchr)se 
foolish  fears  are  most  unmeet  for  thee, 
and  must  be  overcome,  if  necessary,  with 
prayer__and  penance.  Frightened  by  a 
toad"!  Blood  of  the  Martyrs!  Tis  like 
any  foolish  girl !  " 

Father  Pedro  stopped  and  coughed. 

"  I  am  saying  that  no  Christian  child 
should  shrink  from  any  of  God's  harmless 
creatures.  And  only  last  week  thou  wast 
disdainful  of  poor  Murieta's  pig^  forgetting 
that  San  Antonio  himself  did  elect  one  his 
faithful  companion,  even  in  glory." 

"  Yes,  but  it  was  so  fat,  and  so  uncleanly, 
holy  father,"  replied  the  young  acolyte, 
"and  it  smelt  so." 

"  Smelt  so  ?  "  echoed  the  father  doubt- 
fully. "  Have  a  care,  child,  that  this  is 


AT   THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       15 

not  luxuriousness  of  the  senses.  I  have 
noticed  of  late  you  gather  over  much  of 
roses  and  syringa,  excellent  in  their  way 
and  in  moderation,  but  still  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  flower  of  Holy  Church,  the 
lily." 

"  But  lilies  don't  look  well  on  the  refec- 
tory table,  and  against  the  adobe  wall,"  re- 
turned the  acolyte,  with  a  pout  of  a  spoilt 
child  ;  "  and  surely  the  flowers  cannot  help 
being  sweet,  any  more  than  myrrh  or  in- 
cense. And  I  am  not  frightened  of  the 
heathen  Americanos  either  now.  There 
was  a  small  one  in  the  garden  yesterday, 
a  boy  like  me,  and  he  spoke  kindly  and 
with  a  pleasant  face." 

"  What  said  he  to  thee,  child  ? "  asked 
Father  Pedro,  anxiously. 

"  Nay,  the  matter  of  his  speech  I  could 
not  understand,"  laughed  the  boy,  "but 
the  manner  was  as  gentle  as  thine,  holy 
father." 

"  'St,  child,"  said  the  Padre  impatiently. 


16       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

"Thy  likings  are  as  unreasonable  as  thy 
fears.  Besides,  have  I  not  told  thee  it  ill 
becomes  a  child  of  Christ  to  chatter  with 
those  sous  of  Belial?  But  canst  thou  not 
repeat  the  words  —  the  words  he  said?"  he 
continued  suspiciously. 

"  rT  is  a  harsh  tongue  the  Americanos 
speak  in  their  throat,"  replied  the  boy. 
"  But  he  said  *  Devilishnisse '  and  '  pretty- 
as-a-girl,'  and  looked  at  me." 

The  good  father  made  the  boy  repeat  the 
words  gravely,  and  as  gravely  repeated 
them  after  him  with  infinite  simplicity. 
"  They  are  but  heretical  words,"  he  replied 
in  answer  to  the  boy's  inquiring  look ;  "  itis  _ 
well  you  understand  not  English.  Enough. 
Run  away,  child,  and  be  ready  for  the  An- 
gelus.  I  will  commune  with  myself  awhile 
under  the  pear  trees." 

Glad  to  escape  so  easily,  the  young  aco- 
lyte disappeared  down  the  alley  of  fig  trees, 
not  without  a  furtive  look  at  the  patches  of 
chickweed  around  their  roots,  the  possible 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       17 

ambuscade  of  creeping  or  saltant  vermin. 
The  good  priest  heaved  a  sigh  and  glanced 
round  the  darkening  prospect.  The  sun 
had  already  disappeared  over  the  mountain 
wall  that  lay  between  him  and  the  sea, 
rimmed  with  a  faint  white  line  of  outlying 
fog.  A  cool  zephyr  fanned  his  cheek ;  it 
was  the  dying  breath  of  the  vientos  gen- 
erates beyond  the  wall.  As  Father  Pedro's 
eyes  were  raised  to  this  barrier,  which 
seemed  to  shut  out  the  boisterous  world 
beyond,  he  fancied  he  noticed  for  the  first 
time  a  slight  breach  in  the  parapet,  over 
which  an  advanced  banner  of  the  fog  was 
fluttering.  Was  it  an  omen?  His  specu- 
lations were  cut  short  by  a  voice  at  his 
very  side. 

He  turned  quickly  and  beheld  one  of 
those  "  heathens  "  against  whom  he  had 
just  warned  his  young  acolyte ;  one  of 
that  straggling  band  of  adventurers  whom 
the  recent  gold  discoveries  had  scattered 
along  the  coast.  Luckily  the  fertile  allu- 


18       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

vium  of  these  valleys,  lying  parallel  with 
the  sea,  offered  no  "  indications  "  to  attract 
the  gold  seekers.  Nevertheless  to  Father 
Pedro  even  the  infrequent  contact  with  the 
Americanos  was  objectionable  ;  they  were 
at  once  inquisitive  and  careless ;  they  asked 
questions  with  the  sharp  perspicacity  of  con- 
troversy ;  they  received  his  grave  replies 
with  the  frank  indifference  of  utter  world- 
liness.  Powerful  enough  to  have  been  ty- 
rannical oppressors,  they  were  singularly 
tolerant  and  gentle,  contenting  themselves 
with  a  playful,  good-natured  irreverence, 
which  tormented  the  good  father  more  than 
opposition..  They  were  felt  to  be  danger- 
ous and  subversive. 

The  Americano,  however,  who  stood  be- 
fore him  did  not  offensively  suggest  these 
national  qualities.  A  man  of  middle  height, 
strongly  built,  bronzed  and  slightly  gray 
from  the  vicissitudes  of  years  and  exposure, 
he  had  an  air  of  practicaLseriousness  that 
commended  itself  to  Father  Pedro.  To  his 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       19 

religious  mind  it  suggested  self-conscious- 
ness ;  expressed  in  the  dialect  of  the  stran- 
ger it  only  meant  "  business." 

"  I  'm  rather  glad  I  found  you  out  here 
alone,"  began  the  latter ;  "  it  saves  time. 
I  haven't  got  to  take  my  turn  with  the 
rest,  in  there  "  —  he  indicated  the  church 
with  his  thumb  —  "and  you  have  n't  got 
to  make  an  appointment.  You  have  got 
a  clear  forty  minutes  before  the  Angelus 
rings,"  he  added,  consulting  a  large  silver 
chronometer,  "  and  I  reckon  I  kin  git 
through  my  part  of  the  job  inside  of 
twenty,  leaving  you  ten  minutes  for  re- 
marks. I  want  to  confess." 

Father  Pedro  drew  back  with  a  gesture 
of  dignity.  The  stranger,  however,  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  Padre's  sleeve  with  the 
air  of  a  man  anticipating  objection,  but 
never  refusal,  and  went  on. 

"  Of  course,  I  know.  You  want  me  to 
come  at  some  other  time,  and  in  there. 
You  want  it  in  the  reg'lar  style.  That 's 


20       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

your  way  and  your  time.  My  answer  is : 
it  ain't  my  way  and  772^  time.  The  main 
idea  of  confession,  I  take  it,  is  gettin'  at 
the  facts.  I  'm  ready  to  give  'em  if  you  '11 
take  'em  out  here,  now.  If  you  're  willing 
to  drop  the  Church  and  confessional,  and 
all  that  sort  o'  thing,  I,  on  my  side,  am 
willing  to  give  up  the  absolution,  and  all 
that  sort  o'  thing.  You  might,"  he  added, 
with  an  unconscious  touch  of  pathos  in  the 
suggestion,  "  heave  in  a  word  or  two  of  ad- 
vice after  I  get  through  ;  for  instance,  what 
you  'd  do  in  the  circumstances,  you  see ! 
That 's  all.  But  that 's  as  you  please.  It 
ain't  part  of  the  business." 

Irreverent  as  this  speech  appeared,  there 
was  really  no  trace  of  such  intention  in  his 
manner,  and  his  evident  profound  convic- 
tion that  his  suggestion  was  practical,  and 
not  at  all  inconsistent  with  ecclesiastical 
dignity,  would  alone  have  been  enough  to 
touch  the  Padre,  had  not  the  stranger's 
dominant  personality  already  overridden 


AT  THE   MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       21 

him.  He  hesitated.  The  stranger  seized 
the  opportunity  to  take  his  arm,  and  lead 
him  with  the  half  familiarity  of  powerful 
protection  to  a  bench  beneath  the  refectory 
window.  Taking  out  his  watch  again,  he 
put  it  in  the  passive  hands  of  the  aston- 
ished priest,  saying,  "Time  me,"  cleared 
his  throat,  and  began  :  — 

"  Fourteen  years  ago  there  was  a  ship 
cruisin'  in  the  Pacific,  jest  off  this  range, 
that  was  ez  nigh  on  to  a  Hell  afloat  as  any- 
thing rigged  kin  be.  If  a  chap  managed 
to  dodge  the  cap'en's  belaying-pin  for  a 
time,  he  was  bound  to  be  fetched  up  in  the 
ribs  at  last  by  the  mate's  boots.  There 
was  a  chap  knocked  down  the  fore  hatch 
with  a  broken  leg  in  the  Gulf,  and  another 
jumped  overboard  off  Cape  Corrientes, 
crazy  as  a  loon,  along  a  clip  of  the  head 
from  the  cap'en's  trumpet.  Them 's  facts. 
The  ship  was  a  brigantine,  trading  along 
the  Mexican  coast.  The  cap'en  had  his 
wife  aboard,  a  little  timid  Mexican  woman 


22       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

he  'd  picked  up  at  Mazatlan.  I  reckon  she 
did  n't  get  on  with  him  any  better  than 
the  men,  for  she  ups  and  dies  one  day, 
leavin'  her  baby,  a  year-old  gal.  One  of 
the  crew  was  fond  o'  that  baby.  He  used 
to  get  the  black  nurse  to  put  it  in  the 
dingy,  and  he  'd  tow  it  astern,  rocking  it 
with  the  painter  like  a  cradle.  He  did  it 
—  hatin'  the  cap'en  all  the  same.  One  day 
the  black  nurse  got  out  of  the  dingy  for  a 
moment,  when  the  baby  was  asleep,  leavin' 
him  alone  with  it.  An  idea  took  hold  on 
him,  jest  from  cussedness,  you  'd  say,  but 
it  was  partly  from  revenge  on  the  cap'en 
and  partly  to  get  away  from  the  ship. 
The  ship  was  well  in  shore,  -and  the  cur- 
rent settin'  towards  it.  He  slipped  the 
painter  —  that  man  —  and  set  himself 
adrift  with  the  baby.  It  was  a  crazy  act, 
you  'd  reckon,  for  there  wasn't  any  oars  in 
the  boat ;  but  he  had  a  crazy  man's  luck, 
and  he  contrived,  by  sculling  the  boat  with 
one  of  the  seats  he  tore  out,  to  keep  her 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       23 

out  of  the  breakers,  till  he  could  find  a 
bight  in  the  shore  to  run  her  in.  The 
alarm  was  given  from  the  ship,  but  the  fog 
shut  down  upon  him  ;  he  could  hear  the 
other  boats  in  pursuit.  They  seemed  to 
close  in  on  him,  and  by  the  sound  he  judged 
the  cap'en  was  just  abreast  of  him  in  the 
gig,  bearing  down  upon  him  in  the  fog. 
He  slipped  out  of  the  dingy  into  the  water 
without  a  splash,  and  struck  out  for  the 
breakers.  He  got  ashore  after  havin'  been 
knocked  down  and  dragged  in  four  times 
by  the  undertow.  He  had  only  one  idea 
then,  thankfulness  that  he  had  not  taken 
the  baby  with  him  in  the  surf.  You  kin 
put  that  down  for  him :  it 's  a  fact.  He 
got  off  into  the  hills,  and  made  his  way  up 
to  Monterey." 

"  And  the  child  ?  "  asked  the  Padre,  with 
a  sudden  and  strange  asperity  that  boded 
no  good  to  the  penitent ;  "  the  child  thus 
ruthlessly  abandoned  —  what  became  of 
it?" 


24      AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

*'  That 's  just  it,  the  child,"  assented  the 
stranger,  gravely.  "  Well,  if  that  man  was 
on  his  death-bed  instead  of  being  here  talk- 
ing to  you,  he  'd  swear  that  he  thought  the 
cap' en  was  sure  to  come  up  to  it  the  next 
minit.  That 's  a  fact.  But  it  was  n't  until 
one  day  that  he  —  that 's  me  —  ran  across 
one  of  that  crew  in  Frisco.  4  Hallo,  Cranch,' 
sez  he  to  me, '  so  you  got  away,  did  n't  you  ? 
And  how  's  the  cap'en's  baby  ?  Grown  a 
young  gal  by  this  time,  ain't  she  ? '  *  What 
are  you  talking  about,'  sez  I ;  '  how  should 
I  know  ?  '  He  draws  away  from  me,  and 

sez,  '  D it,'  sez  he,  '  you  don't  mean 

that  you  '  .  .  .  I  grabs  him  by  the  throat 
and  makes  him  tell  me  all.  „  And  then  it 
appears  that  the  boat  and  the  baby  were 
never  found  again,  and  every  man  of  that 
crew,  cap' en  and  all,  believed  I  had  stolen 
it." 

He  paused.  Father  Pedro  was  staring 
at  the  prospect  with  an  uncompromising 
rigidity  of  head  and  shoulder. 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C  ARM  EL.       25 

"  It 's  a  bad  lookout  for  me,  ain't  it  ?  " 
the  stranger  continued,  in  serious  reflection. 

"  How  do  I  know,"  said  the  priest 
harshly,  without  turning  his  head,  "  that 
you  did  not  make  away  with  this  child?  " 

"  Beg  pardon." 

"  That  you  did  not  complete  your  re- 
venge by  —  by  —  killing  it,  as  your  com- 
rade suspected  you  ?  Ah  !  Holy  Trinity," 
continued  Father  Pedro,  throwing  out  his 
hands  with  an  impatient  gesture,  as  if  to 
take  the  place  of  unutterable  thought. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  echoed  the  stran- 
ger coldly. 

"Yes." 

The  stranger  linked  his  fingers  together 
and  threw  them  over  his  knee,  drew  it  up 
to  his  chest  caressingly,  and  said  quietly, 
"  Because  you  do  know." 

The  Padre  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  What  mean  you  ?  "  he  said,  sternly  fix- 
ing his  eyes  upon  the  speaker.  Their  eyes 
met.  The  stranger's  were  gray  and  persis- 


26       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

tent,  with  hanging  corner  lids  that  might 
have  concealed  even  more  purpose  than 
they  showed.  The  Padre's  were  hollow, 
open,  and  the  whites  slightly  brown,  as  if 
with  tobacco  stains.  Yet  they  were  the 
first  to  turn  away. 

"I  mean,"  returned  the  stranger,  with 
the  same  practical  gravity,  "  that  you  know 
it  wouldn't  pay  me  to  come  here,  if  I'd 
killed  the  baby,  unless  I  wanted  you  to  fix 
things  right  with  me  up  there,"  pointing 
skywards,  "  and  get  absolution  ;  and  I  Ve 
told  you  t hat  was  n't  in  my  line." 

"  Why  do  you  seek  me,  then  ? "  de- 
manded the  Padre,  suspiciously. 

"  Because  I  reckon  I  thought  a  man 
might  be  allowed  to  confess  something 
short  of  a  murder.  If  you  're  going  to 
draw  the  line  below  that  "  — 

"  This  is  but  sacrilegious  levity,"  inter- 
rupted Father  Pedro,  turning  as  if  to  go. 
But  the  stranger  did  not  make  any  move- 
ment to  detain  him. 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.      27 

"  Have  you  implored  forgiveness  of  the 
father  —  the  man  you  wronged  —  before 
you  came  here  ?  "  asked  the  priest,  linger- 
ing. 

"  Not  much.  It  would  n't  pay  if  he  was 
living,  and  he  died  four  years  ago." 

"  You  are  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  am." 

"  There  are  other  relations,  perhaps  ?  " 

"None." 

Father  Pedro  was  silent.  When  he  spoke 
again,  it  was  with  a  changed  voice.  "  What 
is  your  purpose,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  with  the 
first  indication  of  priestly  sympathy  in  his 
manner.  "  You  cannot  ask  forgiveness  of 
the  earthly  father  you  have  injured,  you 
refuse  the  intercession  of  Holy  Church  with 
the  Heavenly  Father  you  have  disobeyed. 
Speak,  wretched  man !  What  is  it  you 
want  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  find  the  child." 

"  But  if  it  were  possible,  if  she  were  still 
living,  are  you  fit  to  seek  her,  to  even  make 


28       AT  TEE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

yourself  known  to  her,  to  appear  before 
her?" 

"  Well,  if  I  made  it  profitable  to  her, 
perhaps." 

"  Perhaps,"  echoed  the  priest,  scornfully. 
"  So  be  it.  But  why  come  here  ?  " 

"To  ask  your  advice.  To  know  how  to 
begin  my  search.  You  know  this  country. 
You  were  here  when  that  boat  drifted 
ashore  beyond  that  mountain." 

"  Ah,  indeed.  I  have  much  to  do  with 
it.  It  is  an  affair  of  the  alcalde  —  the  au- 
thorities —  of  your  —  your  police." 

"Is  it?" 

The  Padre  again  met  the  stranger's  eyes. 
He  stopped,  with  the  snuff  .box  he  had 
somewhat  ostentatiously  drawn  from  his 
pocket  still  open  in  his  hand. 

"  Why  is  it  not,  Senor  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  If  she  lives,  she  is  a  young  lady  by  this 
time,  and  might  not  want  the  details  of  her 
life  known  to  any  one." 

"  And  how  will  you  recognize  your  baby 


AT   THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       29 

in  this  young  lady  ?  "  asked  Father  Pedro, 
with  a  rapid  gesture,  indicating  the  com- 
parative heights  of  a  baby  and  an  adult. 

"  I  reckon  I  '11  know  her,  and  her  clothes 
too  ;  and  whoever  found  her  would  n't  be 
fool  enough  to  destroy  them." 

"  After   fourteen   years  !      Good  !      You 


^ 

"  Cranch,"  supplied  the  stranger,  consult- 
ing his  watch.  "  But  time  's  up.  Business 
is  business.  Good-by;  don't  let  me  keep 
you.^' 

He  extended  his  hand. 

The  Padre  met  it  with  a  dry,  unsympa- 
thetic palm,  as  sere  and  yellow  as  the  hills. 
When  their  hands  separated,  the  father  still 
hesitated,  looking  at  Cranch.  If  he  ex- 
pected further  speech  or  entreaty  from  him 
he  was  mistaken,  for  the  American,  without 
turning  his  head,  walked  in  the  same  seri- 
ous, practical  fashion  down  the  avenue  of 
fig  trees,  and  disappeared  beyond  the  hedge 
of  vines.  The  outlines  of  the  mountain 


30       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

beyond  were  already  lost  in  the  fog.  Fa- 
ther Pedro  turned  into  the  refectory. 

"Antonio." 

A  strong  flavor  of  leather,  onions,  and 
stable  preceded  the  entrance  of  a  short, 
stout  vaquero  from  the  little  patio. 

44  Saddle  Pinto  and  thine  own  mule  to 
accompany  Francisco,  who  will  take  letters 
from  me  to  the  Father  Superior  at  San 
Jose*  to-morrow  at  daybreak." 

44  At  daybreak,  reverend  father  ?  " 

"At  daybreak.  Hark  ye,  go  by  the 
mountain  trails  and  avoid  the  highway. 
Stop  at  no  posada  nor  fonda,  but  if  the 
child  is  weary,  rest  then  awhile  at  Don 
Juan  Briones'  or  at  the  rancho  of  the 
Blessed  Fisherman.  Have  no  converse 
with  stragglers,  least  of  all  those  gentile 
Americanos.  So  "  .  .  . 

The  first  strokes  of  the  Angelus  came 
from  the  nearer  tower.  With  a  gesture 
Father  Pedro  waved  Antonio  aside,  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  sacristy. 

44  Ad  Majorem  Dei  Gloria" 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.      31 


II. 

The  hacienda  of  Don  Juan  Briones,  nest- 
ling in  a  wooded  cleft  of  the  foot-hills,  was 
hidden,  as  Father  Pedro  had  wisely  re- 
flected, from  the  straying  feet  of  travelers 
along  the  dusty  highway  to  San  Jose.  As 
Francisco,  emerging  from  the  canada,  put 
spurs  to  his  mule  at  the  sight  of  the  white- 
washed walls,  Antonio  grunted :  — 

"  Oh  aye,  little  priest !  thou  wast  tired 
enough  a  moment  ago,  and  though  we  are 
not  three  leagues  from  the  Blessed  Fisher- 
man, thou  couldst  scarce  sit  thy  saddle 
longer.  Mother  of  God !  and  all  to  see 
that  little  mongrel,  Juanita.'' 

"But,  good  Antonio,  Juanita  was  my 
playfellow,  and  I  may  not  soon  again  chance 
this  way.  And  Juanita  is  not  a  mongrel, 
no  more  than  I  am." 

"She  is  a  mestizcy' and  thou  art  a  child 
of  the  Church,  though  this  following  of 
gypsy  wenches  does  not  show  it." 


32       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

"But  Father  Pedro  does  not  object," 
urged  the  boy. 

"  The  reverend  father  has  forgotten  he 
was  ever  young,"  replied  Antonio,  senten- 
tiously,  "  or  he  would  n't  set  fire  and  tow 
together." 

"  What  sayest  thou,  good  Antonio  ?  " 
asked  Francisco  quickly,  opening  his  blue 
eyes  in  frank  curiosity ;  "  who  is  fire,  and 
who  is  tow  ?  " 

The  worthy  muleteer,  utterly  abashed 
and  confounded  by  this  display  of  the  aco- 
lyte's direct  simplicity,  contented  himself 
by  shrugging  his  shoulders,  and  a  vague 
"Quien  sabe?" 

"  Come,"  said  the  boy,  gayjy,  "  confess  it 
is  only  the  aguardiente  of  the  Blessed  Fish- 
erman thou  missest.  Never  fear,  Juanita 
will  find  thee  some.  And  see !  here  she 
comes." 

There  was  a  flash  of  white  flounces  along 
the  dark  brown  corridor,  the  twinkle  of 
satin  slippers,  the  flying  out  of  long  black 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       33 

braids,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy  a  young  girl 
threw  herself  upon  Francisco  as  he  entered 
the  patio,  and  nearly  dragged  him  from  his 
mule. 

44  Have  a  care,  little  sister,"  laughed  the 
acolyte,  looking  at  Antonio,  "  or  there  will 
be  a  conflagration.  Am  I  the  fire  ?  "  he 
continued,  submitting  to  the  two  sounding 
kisses  the  young  girl  placed  upon  either 
cheek,  but  still  keeping  his  mischievous 
glance  upon  the  muleteer. 

44  Quien  sabe  f  "  repeated  Antonio,  gruffly, 
as  the  young  girl  blushed  under  his  signifi- 
cant eyes.  44  It  is  no  affair  of  mine,"  he 
added  to  himself,  as  he  led  Pinto  away. 
44  Perhaps  Father  Pedro  is  right,  and  this 
young  twig  of  the  Church  is  as  dry  and 
sapless  as  himself.  Let  the  mestizo,  burn 
if  she  likes." 

44  Quick,  Pancho,"  said  the  young  girl, 
eagerly  leading  him  along  the  corridor. 
"  This  way.  I  must  talk  with  thee  before 
thou  seest  Don  Juan  ;  that  is  why  I  ran  to 


34       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

intercept  thee,  and  not  as  that  fool  Antonio 
would  signify,  to  shame  thee.  Wast  thou 
ashamed,  my  Pancho  ?  " 

The  boy  threw  his  arm  familiarly  round 
the  supple,  stayless  little  waist,  accented 
only  by  the  belt  of  the  light  flounced  saya, 
and  said,  "  But  why  this  haste  and  fever- 
ishness,  'Nita?  And  now  I  look  at  thee, 
thou  hast  been  crying." 

They  had  emerged  from  a  door  in  the 
corridor  into  the  bright  sunlight  of  a  walled 
garden.  The  girl  dropped  her  eyes,  cast  a 
quick  glance  around  her,  and  said,  — 

"  Not  here,  to  the  arroyo"  and  half  lead- 
ing, half  dragging  him,  made  her  way 
through  a  copse  of  manzanita'&nd  alder  un- 
til they  heard  the  faint  tinkling  of  water. 
"  Dost  thou  remember,"  said  the  girl,  "  it 
was  here,"  pointing  to  an  embayed  pool  in 
the  dark  current,  "  that  I  baptized  thee, 
when  Father  Pedro  first  brought  thee  here, 
when  we  both  played  at  being  monks? 
They  were  dear  old  days,  for  Father  Pedro 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       35 

would  trust  no  one  with  thee  but  me,  and 
always  kept  us  near  him." 

"  Aye,  and  he  said  I  would  be  profaned 
by  the  touch  of  any  other,  and  so  himself 
always  washed  and  dressed  me,  and  made 
my  bed  near  his." 

"  And  took  thee  away  again,  and  I  saw 
thee  not  till  thou  earnest  with  Antonio, 
over  a  year  ago,  to  the  cattle  branding. 
And  now,  my  Pancho,  I  may  never  see  thee 
again."  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  sobbed  aloud. 

The  little  acolyte  tried  to  comfort  her, 
but  with  such  abstraction  of  manner  and 
inadequacy  of  warmth  that  she  hastily  re- 
moved his  caressing  hand. 

"  But  why  ?  What  has  happened  ?  "  he 
asked  eagerly. 

The  girl's  manner  had  changed.  Her 
eyes  flashed,  and  she  put  her  brown  fist  on 
her  waist  and  began  to  rock  from  side  to 
side. 

"  But  I  '11  not  go,"  she  said  viciously. 


36       A  T   THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

"  Go  where  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  Oh,  where  ?  "  she  echoed,  impatiently. 
"  Hear  me,  Francisco  ;  thou  knowest  I  am, 
like  thee,  an  orphan ;  but  I  have  not,  like 
thee,  a  parent  in  the  Holy  Church.  For, 
alas,"  she  added,  bitterly,  "  I  am  not  a  boy, 
and  have  not  a  lovely  voice  borrowed  from 
the  angels.  I  was,  like  thee,  a  foundling, 
kept  by  the  charity  of  the  reverend  fa- 
thers, until  Don  Juan,  a  childless  widower, 
adopted  me.  I  was  happy,  not  knowing 
and  caring  who  were  the  parents  who  had 
abandoned  me,  happy  only  in  the  love  of 
him  who  became  my  adopted  father.  And 
now  "  —  She  paused. 

"  And  now  ?  "  echoed  Francisco,  eagerly. 

"  And  now  they  say  it  is  discovered  who 
are  my  parents." 

"  And  they  live  ?  " 

"  Mother  of  God !  no,"  said  the  girl,  with 
scarcely  filial  piety.  "  There  is  some  one, 
a  thing,  a  mere  Don  Fulano,  who  knows 
it  all,  it  seems,  who  is  to  be  my  guardian." 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       37 

"  But  how  ?  tell  me  all,  dear  Juanita," 
said  the  boy  with  a  feverish  interest,  that 
contrasted  so  strongly  with  his  previous 
abstraction  that  Juanita  bit  her  lips  with 
vexation. 

"  Ah  !  How  ?  Santa  Barbara  !  an  ex- 
travaganza for  children.  A  necklace  of 
lies.  I  am  lost  from  a  ship  of  which  my 
father  —  Heaven  rest  him  —  is  General, 
and  I  am  picked  up  among  the  weeds  on 
the  sea-shore,  like  Moses  in  the  bulrushes. 
A  pretty  story,  indeed." 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful !  "  exclaimed  Fran- 
cisco, enthusiastically.  "  Ah,  Juanita,  would 
it  had  been  me," 

"  Thee  !  "  said  the  girl  bitterly,  —  "  thee ! 
No  !  —  it  was  a  girl  wanted.  Enough,  it 
was  me." 

"  And  when  does  the  guardian  come  ?  " 
persisted  the  boy,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"He  is  here  even  now,  with  that  pom- 
pous fool  the  American  alcalde  from  Mon- 
terey, a  wretch  who  knows  nothing  of  the 


38       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

country  or  the  people,  but  who  helped  the 
other  American  to  claim  me.  I  tell  thee, 
Francisco,  like  as  not  it  is  all  a  folly,  some 
senseless  blunder  of  those  Americanos  that 
imposes  upon  Don  Juan's  simplicity  and 
Jove  for  them." 

"  How  looks  he,  this  Americano  who 
seeks  thee  ?  "  asked  Francisco. 

"  What  care  I  how  he  looks,"  said  Jua- 
nita,  "  or  what  he  is  ?  He  may  have  the 
four  S's,  for  all  I  care.  Yet,"  she  added 
with  a  slight  touch  of  coquetry,  "  he  is  not 
bad  to  look  upon,  now  I  recall  him." 

"  Had  he  a  long  moustache  and  a  sad, 
sweet  smile,  and  a  voice  so  gentle  and  yet 
so  strong  that  you  felt  he  ordered  you  to  do 
things  without  saying  it  ?  And  did  his  eye 
read  your  thoughts?  —  that  very  thought 
that  you  must  obey  him  ?  " 

"  Saints  preserve  thee,  Pancho !  Of 
whom  dost  thou  speak  ?  " 

"  Listen,  Juanita.  It  was  a  year  ago,  the 
eve  of  Natividad,  he  was  in  the  church  when 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       39 

I  sang.  Look  where  I  would,  I  always  met 
his  eye.  When  the  canticle  was  sung  and 
I  was  slipping  into  the  sacristy,  he  was 
beside  me.  He  spoke  kindly,  but  I  under- 
stood him  not.  He  put  into  my  hand  gold 
for  an  aguinaldo.  I  pretended  I  understood 
not  that  also,  and  put  it  into  the  box  for 
the  poor.  He  smiled  and  went  away.  Of- 
ten have  I  seen  him  since,  and  last  night, 
when  I  left  the  Mission,  he  was  there  again 
with  Father  Pedro." 

"And  Father  Pedro,  what  said  he  of 
him  ?  "  asked  Juanita. 

"  Nothing."  The  boy  hesitated.  "  Per- 
haps—  because  I  said  nothing  of  the  stran- 
ger." 

Juanita  laughed.  "  So  thou  canst  keep 
a  secret  from  the  good  father  when  thou 
carest.  But  why  dost  thou  think  this 
stranger  is  my  new  guardian  ?  " 

"  Dost  thou  not  see,  little  sister  ?  he  was 
even  then  seeking  thee,"  said  the  boy  with 
joyous  excitement.  "  Doubtless  he  knew 


40      AT  TEE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

we  were  friends  and  playmates  —  may  be 
the  good  father  has  told  him  thy  secret. 
For  it  is  no  idle  tale  of  the  alcalde,  believe 
me.  I  see  it  all !  It  is  true  !  " 

"  Then  thou  wilt  let  him  take  me  away," 
exclaimed  the  girl  bitterly,  withdrawing 
the  little  hand  he  had  clasped  in  his  excite- 
ment. 

"  Alas,  Juanita,  what  avails  it  now  ?  I 
am  sent  to  San  Jose*,  charged  with  a  letter 
to  the  Father  Superior,  who  will  give  me 
further  orders.  What  they  are,  or  how 
long  I  must  stay,  I  know  not.  But  I  know 
this:  the  good  Father  Pedro's  eyes  were 
troubled  when  he  gave  me  his  blessing,  and 
he  held  me  long  in  his  embrace.  Pray 
Heaven  I  have  committed  no  fault.  Still 
it  may  be  that  the  reputation  of  my  gift 
hath  reached  the  Father  Superior,  and  he 
would  advance  me."  And  Francisco's  eyes 
lit  up  with  youthful  pride  at  the  thought. 

Not  so  Juanita.  Her  black  eyes  snapped 
suddenly  with  suspicion,  she  drew  in  her 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       41 

breath,  and  closed  her  little  mouth  firmly. 
Then  she  began  a  crescendo. 

Mother  of  God!  was  that  all?  Was  he 
a  child,  to  be  sent  away  for  such  time  or 
for  such  purpose  as  best  pleased  the  fa- 
thers? Was  he  to  know  no  more  than 
that  ?  With  such  gifts  as  God  had  given 
him,  was  he  not  at  least  to  have  some  word 
in  disposing  of  them  ?  Ah !  she  would  not 
stand  it. 

The  boy  gazed  admiringly  at  the  piquant 
energy  of  the  little  figure  before  him,  and 
envied  her  courage.  "  It  is  the  mestizo 
blood,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  Then 
aloud,  "Thou  shouldst  have  been  a  man, 
'Nita." 

"  And  thou  a  woman." 

"  Or  a  priest.     Eh,  what  is  that?  " 

They  had  both  risen,  Juanita  defiantly, 
her  black  braids  flying  as  she  wheeled  and 
suddenly  faced  the  thicket,  Francisco  cling- 
ing to  her  with  trembling  hands  and  whit- 
ened lips.  A  stone,  loosened  from  the  hill- 


42       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

side,  had  rolled  to  their  feet ;  there  was  a 
crackling  in  the  alders  on  the  slope  above 
them. 

"  Is  it  a  bear,  or  a  brigand  ?  "  whispered 
Francisco,  hurriedly,  sounding  the  utter- 
most depths  of  his  terror  in  the  two  words. 

"It  is  an  eavesdropper,"  said  Juanita, 
impetuously ;  "  and  who  and  why,  I  intend 
to  know,"  and  she  started  towards  the 
thicket. 

"  Do  not  leave  me,  good  Juanita,"  said 
the  young  acolyte,  grasping  the  girl's  skirt. 

"  Nay ;  run  to  the  hacienda  quickly,  and 
leave  me  to  search  the  thicket.  Run !  " 

The  boy  did  not  wait  for  a  second  injunc- 
tion, but  scuttled  away,  his  long  coat  catch- 
ing in  the  brambles,  while  Juanita  darted 
like  a  kitten  into  the  bushes.  Her  search 
was  fruitless,  however,  and  she  was  return- 
ing impatiently  when  her  quick  eye  fell 
upon  a  letter  lying  amidst  the  dried  grass 
where  she  and  Francisco  had  been  seated 
the  moment  before.  It  had  evidently  fallen 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.      43 

from  his  breast  when  he  had  risen  suddenly, 
and  been  overlooked  in  his  alarm.  It  was 
Father  Pedro's  letter  to  the  Father  Superior 
of  San  Jose. 

In  an  instant  she  had  pounced  upon  it  as 
viciously  as  if  it  had  been  the  interloper 
she  was  seeking.  She  knew  that  she  held 
in  her  fingers  the  secret  of  Francisco's  sud- 
den banishment.  She  felt  instinctively 
that  this  yellowish  envelope,  with  its  red 
string  and  its  blotch  of  red  seal,  was  his 
sentence  and  her  own.  The  little  mestizo, 
had  not  been  brought  up  to  respect  the  in- 
tegrity of  either  locks  or  seals,  both  being 
unknown  in  the  patriarchal  life  of  the  ha- 
cienda. Yet  with  a  certain  feminine  in- 
stinct she  looked  furtively  around  her,  and 
even  managed  to  dislodge  the  clumsy  wax 
without  marring  the  pretty  effigy  of  the 
crossed  keys  impressed  upon  it.  Then  she 
opened  the  letter  and  read. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  and  put  back  her 
hair  from  her  brown  temples.  Then  a  sue- 


44       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

cession  of  burning  blushes  followed  each* 
other  in  waves  from  her  neck  up,  and  died 
in  drops  of  moisture  in  her  eyes.  This 
continued  until  she  was  fairly  crying,  drop- 
ping the  letter  from  her  hands  and  rocking 
to  and  fro.  In  the  midst  of  this  she  quickly 
stopped  again ;  the  clouds  broke,  a  sunshine 
of  laughter  started  from  her  eyes,  she 
laughed  shyly,  she  laughed  loudly,  she 
laughed  hysterically.  Then  she  stopped 
again  as  suddenly,  knitted  her  brows, 
swooped  down  once  more  upon  the  letter, 
and  turned  to  fly.  But  at  the  same  moment 
the  letter  was  quietly  but  firmly  taken  from 
her  hand,  and  Mr.  Jack  Cranch  stood  be- 
side her. 

Juanita  was  crimson,  but  unconquered. 
She  mechanically  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
letter ;  the  American  took  her  little  fingers^ 
kissed  them,  and  said  :  — 

"  How  are  you  again  ?  " 

"  The  letter,"  replied  Juanita,  with  a 
strong  disposition  to  stamp  her  foot. 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       45 

"  But,"  said  Cranch,  with  business  di- 
rectness, "  you  Ve  read  enough  to  know  it 
is  n't  for  you." 

"  Nor  for  you  either,"  responded  Juanita. 

"  True.  It  is  for  the  Reverend  Father 
Superior  of  San  Jose  Mission.  I  '11  give  it 
to  him." 

Juanita  was  becoming  alarmed,  first  at 
this  prospect,  second  at  the  power  the 
stranger  seemed  to  be  gaining  over  her. 
She  recalled  Francisco's  description  of  him 
with  something  like  superstitious  awe. 

"But- it  concerns  Francisco.  It  contains 
a  secret  he  should  know." 

"  Then  you  can  tell  him  it.  Perhaps  it 
would  come  easier  from  you." 

Juanita  blushed  again.  "  Why  ?  "  she 
asked,  half  dreading  his  reply. 

"  Because,"  said  the  American,  quietly, 
"  you  are  old  playmates ;  you  are  attached 
to  each  other." 

Juanita  bit  her  lips.  "  Why  don't  you 
Jcead  it,  yourself?  "  she  asked  bluntly. 


46       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

"  Because  I  don't  read  other  people's  let- 
ters, and  if  it  -concerns  me  you  '11  tell  me." 

"What  if  I  don't?" 

"  Then  the  Father  Superior  will." 

"  I  believe  you  know  Francisco's  secret 
already,"  said  the  girl,  boldly. 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Then,  Mother  of  God  !  Sefior  Crancho, 
what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  want  to  separate  two  such  good 
friends  as  you  and  Francisco." 

"  Perhaps  you  'd  like  to  claim  us  both," 
said  the  girl,  with  a  sneer  that  was  not  de- 
void of  coquetry. 

"  I  should  be  delighted." 

"  Then  here  is  your  occasion-,  Senor,  for 
here  comes  my  adopted  father,  Don  Juan, 
and  your  friend,  Senor  Br — r— -own,  the 
American  alcalde." 

Two  men  appeared  in  the  garden  path  be- 
low them.  The  stiff,  glazed,  broad-brimmed 
black  hat,  surmounting  a  dark  face  of  Quix- 
otic gravity  and  romantic  rectitude,  indi- 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.      47 

cated  Don  Juan  Briones.  His  companion, 
lazy,  specious,  and  red-faced,  was  Senor 
Brown,  the  American  alcalde. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  we  kin  about  call  the 
thing  fixed,"  said  Senor  Brown,  with  a 
large  wave  of  the  hand,  suggesting  a  sweep- 
ing away  of  all  trivial  details.  "  Ez  I  was 
saying  to  the  Don  yer,  when  two  high- 
toned  gents  like  you  and  him  come  to- 
gether in  a  delicate  matter  of  this  kind,  it 
ain't  no  hoss  trade  nor  sharp  practice.  The 
Don  is  that  lofty  in  principle  that  he 's 
willin'  to  sacrifice  his  affections  for  the 
good  of  the  gal ;  and  you,  on  your  hand,  kal- 
kilate  to  see  all  he 's  done  for  her,  and  go 
your  whole  pile  better.  You  '11  make  the 
legal  formalities  good.  I  reckon  that  old 
Injin  woman  who  can  swear  to  the  finding 
of  the  baby  on  the  shore  will  set  things  all 
right  yet.  For  the  matter  o'  that,  if  you 
want  anything  in  the  way  of  a  certificate, 
I  'm  on  hand  always." 

"  Juanita  and  myself  are  at  your  dispo- 


48       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

sition,  cciballeros"  said  Don  Juan,  with  a 
grave  exaltation.  "  Never  let  it  be  said 
that  the  Mexican  nation  was  outdone  by 
the  great  Americanos  in  deeds  of  courtesy 
and  affection.  Let  it  rather  stand  that 
Juanita  was  a  sacred  trust  put  into  my 
hands  years  ago  by  the  goddess  of  Amer- 
ican liberty,  and  nurtured  in  the  Mexican 
eagle's  nest.  Is  is  not  so,  my  soul  ? w  he 
added,  more  humanly,  to  the  girl,  when  he 
had  quite  recovered  from  the  intoxication 
of  his  own  speech.  "  We  love  thee,  little 
one,  but  we  keep  our  honor." 

"There's  nothing  mean  about  the  old 
man,"  said  Brown,  admiringly,  with  a 
slight  dropping  of  his  left  eyelid ;  "his 
head  is  level,  and  he  goes  with  his  party." 

"  Thou  takest  my  daughter,  Senor 
Cranch,"  continued  the  old  man,  carried 
away  by  his  emotion  ;  "  but  the  American 
nation  gives  me  a  son." 

"  You  know  not  what  you  say,  father," 
said  the  young  girl,  angrily,  exasperated 
by  a  slight  twinkle  in  the  American's  eye. 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.      49 

"  Not  so,"  said  Cranch.  "  Perhaps  one 
of  the  American  nation  may  take  him  at 
his  word." 

"  Then,  caballeros,  you  will,  for  the  mo- 
ment at  least,  possess  yourselves  of  the 
house  and  its  poor  hospitality,"  said  Don 
Juan,  with  time-honored  courtesy,  produc- 
ing the  rustic  key  of  the  gate  of  the  patio. 
"  It  is  at  your  disposition,  caballeros^  he 
repeated,  leading  the  way  as  his  guests 
passed  into  the  corridor. 

Two  hours  passed.  The  hills  were  dark- 
ening on  their  eastern  slopes  ;  the  shadows 
of  the  few  poplars  that  sparsedly  dotted 
the  dusty  highway  were  falling  in  long 
black  lines  that  looked  like  ditches  on  the 
dead  level  of. the  tawny  fields;  the  shadows 
of  slowly  moving  cattle  were  mingling  with 
their  own  silhouettes,  and  becoming  more 
and  more  grotesque.  A  keen  wind  rising 
in  the  hills  was  already  creeping  from 
the  canada  as  from  the  mouth  of  a  funnel, 
and  sweeping  the  plains.  Antonio  had  for- 


50      AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

gathered  with  the  servants,  had  pinched 
the  ears  of  the  maids,  had  partaken  of 
aguardiente^  had  saddled  the  mules,  —  An- 
tonio was  becoming  impatient. 

And  then  a  singular  commotion  disturbed 
the  peaceful  monotony  of  the  patriarchal 
household  of  Don  Juan  Briones.  The  stag- 
nant courtyard  was  suddenly  alive  with 
peons  and  servants,  running  hither  and 
thither.  The  alleys  and  gardens  were 
filled  with  retainers.  A  confusion  of  ques- 
tions, orders,  and  outcrys  rent  the  air,  the 
plains  shook  with  the  galloping  of  a  dozen 
horsemen.  For  the  acolyte  Francisco,  of 
the  Mission  San .  Carmel,  had  disappeared 
and  vanished,  and  from  that  day  the  haci- 
enda of  Don  Juan  Briones  knew  him  no 


in. 

When    Father   Pedro   saw    the    yellow 
mules  vanish  under  the  low  branches  of  the 


AT   THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       51 

oaks  beside  the  little  graveyard,  caught  the 
last  glitter  of  the  morning  sun  on  Pinto's 
shining  headstall,  and  heard  the  last  tinkle 
of  Antonio's  spurs,  something  very  like  a 
mundane  sigh  escaped  him.  To  the  simple 
wonder  of  the  majority  of  early  worship- 
ers —  the  half  -  breed  converts  who  rigor- 
ously attended  the  spiritual  ministrations 
of  the  Mission,  and  ate  the  temporal  provis- 
ions of  the  reverend  fathers  —  he  deputed 
the  functions  of  the  first  mass  to  a  coadju- 
tor, and,  breviary  in  hand,  sought  the  or- 
chard of  venerable  pear  trees.  Whether 
there  was  any  occult  sympathy  in  his  re- 
flections with  the  contemplation  of  their 
gnarled,  twisted,  gouty,  and  knotty  limbs, 
still  bearing  gracious  and  goodly  fruit,  I 
know  not,  but  it  was  his  private  retreat, 
and  under  one  of  the  most  rheumatic  and 
misshapen  trunks  there  was  a  rude  seat. 
Here  Father  Pedro  sank,  his  face  towards 
the  mountain  wall  between  him  and  the  in- 
visible sea.  The  relentless,  dry,  practical 


52       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

California!!  sunlight  falling  on  his  face 
grimly  pointed  out  a  night  of  vigil  and  suf- 
fering. The  snuffy  yellow  of  his  eyes  was 
injected  yet  burning,  his  temples  were 
ridged  and  veined  like  a  tobacco  leaf ;  the 
odor  of  dessication  which  his  garments  al- 
ways exhaled  was  hot  and  feverish,  as  if 
the  fire  had  suddenly  awakened  among  the 
ashes. 

Of  what  was  Father  Pedro  thinking  ? 

He  was  thinking  of  his  youth,  a  youth 
spent  under  the  shade  of  those  pear  trees, 
even  then  venerable  as  now.  He  was 
thinking  of  his  youthful  dreams  of  heathen 
conquest,  emulating  the  sacrifices  and  la- 
bors of  Junipero  Serra ;  a  dream  cut  short 
by  the  orders  of  the  archbishop,  that  sent 
his  companion,  Brother  Diego,  north  on 
a  mission  to  strange  lands,  and  condemned 
him  to  the  isolation  of  San  Carmel.  He 
was  thinking  of  that  fierce  struggle  with 
envy  of 'a  fellow  creature's  better  fortune 
that,  conquered  by  prayer  and  penance, 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       53 

left  him  patient,  submissive,  and  devoted 
to  his  humble  work ;  how  he  raised  up  con- 
verts to  the  faith,  even  taking  them  from 
the  breast  of  heretic  mothers. 

He  recalled  how  once,  with  the  zeal  of 
propagandism  quickening  in  the  instincts 
of  a  childless  man,  he  had  dreamed  of  per- 
petuating his  work  through  some  sinless 
creation  of  his  own  ;  of  dedicating  some 
virgin  soul,  one  over  whom  he  could  have 
complete  control,  restricted  by  no  human 
paternal  weakness,  to  the  task  he  had  be- 
gun. But  how?  Of  all  the  boys  eagerly 
offered  to  the  Church  by  their  parents  there 
seemed  none  sufficiently  pure  and  free  from 
parental  taint.  He  remembered  how  one 
.  night,  through  the  intercession  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin  herself,  as  he  firmly  then 
believed,  this  dream  was  fulfilled.  An  In- 
dian woman  brought  him  a  Waugee  child 
—  a  baby-girl  that  she  had  picked  up  on 
the  sea-shore.  There  were  no  parents  to 
divide  the  responsibility,  the  child  had  no 


54       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

past  to  confront,  except  the  memory  of  the 
ignorant  Indian  woman,  who  deemed  her 
duty  done,  and  whose  interest  ceased  in 
giving  it  to  the  Padre.  The  austere  con- 
ditions of  his  monkish  life  compelled  him 
to  the  first  step  in  his  adoption  of  it  —  the 
concealment  of  its  sex.  This  was  easy 
enough,  as  he  constituted  himself  from  that 
moment  its  sole  nurse  and  attendant,  and 
boldly  baptized  it  among  the  other  children 
by  the  name  of  Francisco.  No  others  knew 
its  origin,  nor  cared  to  know.  Father  Pe- 
dro had  taken  a  muchacho  foundling  for 
adoption  ;  his  jealous  seclusion  of  it  and  his 
personal  care  was  doubtless  some  sacerdo- 
tal formula  at  once  high  and  necessary. 

He  remembered  with  darkening  eyes 
and  impeded  breath  how  his  close  compan- 
ionship and  daily  care  of  this  helpless  child 
had  revealed  to  him  the  fascinations  of  that 
paternity  denied  to  him  ;  how  he  had 
deemed  it  his  duty  to  struggle  against  the 
thrill  of  baby  fingers  laid  upon  his  yellow 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       55 

cheeks,  the  pleading  of  inarticulate  words, 
the  eloquence  of  wonder-seeing  and  mutely 
questioning  eyes ;  how  he  had  succumbed 
again  and  again,  and  then  struggled  no 
more,  seeing  only  in  them  the  suggestion 
of  childhood  made  incarnate  in  the  Holy 
Babe.  And  yet,  even  as  he  thought,  he 
drew  from  his  gown  a  little  shoe,  and  laid 
it  beside  his  breviary.  It  was  Francisco's 
baby  slipper,  a  duplicate  to  those  worn  by 
the  miniature  waxen  figure  of  the  Holy 
Virgin  herself  in  her  niche  in  the  transept. 
Had  he  felt  during  these  years  any  qualms 
of  conscience  at  this  concealment  of  the 
child's  sex  ?  None.  For  to  him  the  babe 
was  sexless,  as  most  befitted  one  who  was 
to  live  and  die  at  the  foot  of  the  altar. 
There  was  no  attempt  to  deceive  God ;  what 
mattered  else?  Nor  was  he  withholding 
the  child  from  the  ministrations  of  the  sa- 
cred sisters  ;  there  was  no  convent  near 
the  Mission,  and  as  each  year  passed,  the 
difficulty  of  restoring  her  to  the  position 


56       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

and  duties  of  her  sex  became  greater  and 
more  dangerous.  And  then  the  acolyte's 
destiny  was  sealed  by  what  again  appeared 
to  Father  Pedro  as  a  direct  interposition  of 
Providence.  The  child  developed  a  voice 
of  such  exquisite  sweetness  and  purity  that 
an  angel  seemed  to  have  strayed  into  the 
little  choir,  and  kneeling  worshipers  below, 
transported,  gazed  upwards,  half  expectant 
of  a  heavenly  light  breaking  through  the 
gloom  of  the  raftered  ceiling.  The  fame 
of  the  little  singer  filled  the  valley  of  San 
Carmel  ;  it  was  a  miracle  vouchsafed  the 
Mission  ;  Don  Jose*  Peralta  remembered, 
ah  yes,  to  have  heard  in  old  Spain  of  boy 
choristers  with  such  voices  ! 

And  was  this  sacred  trust  to  be  with- 
drawn from  him  ?  Was  this  life  which  he 
had  brought  out  of  an  unknown  world  of 
sin,  unstained  and  pure,  consecrated  and 
dedicated  to  God,  just  in  the  dawn  of  power 
and  promise  for  the  glory  of  the  Mother 
Church,  to  be  taken  from  his  side  ?  And 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       57 

at  the  word  of  a  self-convicted  man  of  sin 
—  a  man  whose  tardy  repentance  was  not 
yet  absolved  by  the  Holy  Church.  Never ! 
never  !  Father  Pedro  dwelt  upon  the 
stranger's  rejection  of  the  ministrations  of 
the  Church  with  a  pitiable  satisfaction ; 
had  he  accepted  it,  he  would  have  had  a 
sacred  claim  upon  Father  Pedro's  sympathy 
and  confidence.  Yet  he  rose  again,  un- 
easily and  with  irregular  steps  returned  to 
the  corridor,  passing  the  door  of  the  famil- 
iar little  cell  beside  his  own.  The  window, 
the  table,  and  even  the  scant  toilette  uten- 
sils were  filled  with  the  flowers  of  yester- 
day, some  of  them  withered  and  dry ;  the 
white  gown  of  the  little  chorister  was  hang- 
ing emptily  against  the  wall.  Father  Pe- 
dro started  and  trembled ;  it  seemed  as  if 
the  spiritual  life  of  the  child  had  slipped 
away  with  its  garments. 

In  that  slight  chill,  which  even  in  the 
hottest  days  in  California  always  invests 
any  shadow  cast  in  that  white  sunlight, 


58       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

Father  Pedro  shivered  in  the  corridor. 
Passing  again  into  the  garden,  he  followed 
in  fancy  the  wayfaring  figure  of  Francisco, 
saw  the  child  arrive  at  the  rancho  of  Don 
Juan,  and  with  the  fateful  blindness  of  all 
dreamers  projected  a  picture  most  unlike 
the  reality.  He  followed  the  pilgrims  even 
to  San  Jose*,  and  saw  the  child  deliver  the 
missive  which  gave  the  secret  of  her  sex 
and  condition  to  the  Father  Superior. 
That  the  authority  at  San  Jose  might  dis- 
sent with  the  Padre  of  San  Carmel,  or  de- 
cline to  carry  out  his  designs,  did  not  occur 
to  the  one-idea'd  priest.  Like  all  solitary 
people,  isolated  from  passing  events,  he 
made  no  allowances  for  occurrences  outside 
of  his  routine.  Yet  at  this  moment  a  sud- 
den thought  whitened  his  yellow  cheek. 
What  if  the  Father  Superior  deemed  it 
necessary  to  impart  the  secret  to  Fran- 
cisco ?  Would  the  child  recoil  at  the  decep- 
tion, and,  perhaps,  cease  to  love  him?  It 
was  the  first  time,  in  his  supreme  selfish- 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       59 

ness,  he  had  taken  the  acolyte's  feelings 
into  account.  He  had  thought  of  him  only 
as  one  owing  implicit  obedience  to  him  as 
a  temporal  and  spiritual  guide. 

"  Reverend  Father  !  " 

He  turned  impatiently.  It  was  his  mule- 
teer, Jose.  Father  Pedro's  sunken  eye 
brightened. 

"  Ah,  Jose  !  Quickly,  then;  hast  thou 
found  Sanchicha  ?  " 

"  Truly,  your  reverence  !  And  I  have 
brought  her  with  me,  just  as  she  is ;  though 
if  your  reverence  make  more  of  her  than 
to  fill  the  six-foot  hole  and  say  a  prayer 
over  her,  I  '11  give  the  mule  that  brought 
her  here  for  food  for  the  bull's  horns.  She 
neither  hears  nor  speaks,  but  whether  from 
weakness  or  sheer  wantonness,  I  know  not." 

"  Peace,  then !  and  let  thy  tongue  take 
example  from  hers.  Bring  her  with  thee 
into  the  sacristy  and  attend  without.  Go !  " 

Father  Pedro  watched  the  disappearing 
figure  of  the  muleteer  and  hurriedly  swept 


60       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

his  thin,  dry  hand,  veined  and  ribbed  like  a 
brown  November  leaf,  over  his  stony  fore- 
head, with  a  sound  that  seemed  almost  a 
rustle.  Then  he  suddenly  stiffened  his  fin- 
gers over  his  breviary,  dropped  his  arms 
perpendicularly  before  him,  and  with  a 
rigid  step  returned  to  the  corridor  and 
passed  into  the  sacristy. 

For  a  moment  in  the  half-darkness  the 
room  seemed  to  be  empty.  Tossed  care- 
lessly in  the  corner  appeared  some  blank- 
ets topped  by  a  few  straggling  black  horse 
tails,  like  an  unstranded  riata.  A  trem- 
bling agitated  the  mass  as  Father  Pedro 
approached.  .  He  bent  over  the  heap  and 
distinguished  in  its  midst  the  glowing  black 
eyes  of  Sanchicha,  the  Indian  centenarian 
of  the  Mission  San  Carmel.  Only  her 
eyes  lived.  Helpless,  boneless,  and  jelly- 
like,  old  age  had  overtaken  her  with  a  mild 
form  of  deliquescence. 

"  Listen,  Sanchicha,"  said  the  father, 
gravely.  "  It  is  important  that  thou 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       61 

shouldst  refresh  thy  memory  for  a  moment. 
Look  back  fourteen  years,  mother ;  it  is 
but  yesterday  to  thee.  Thou  dost  remem- 
ber the  baby  —  a  little  muchacha  thou 
broughtest  me  then  —  fourteen  years 
ago  ?  " 

The  old  woman's  eyes  became  intelli- 
gent, and  turned  with  a  quick  look  towards 
the  open  door  of  the  church,  and  thence 
towards  the  choir. 

The  Padre  made  a  motion  of  irritation. 
"  No,  no  !  Thou  dost  not  understand ; 
thou  dost  not  attend  me.  Knowest  thou  of 
any  mark  of  clothing,  trinket,  or  amulet 
found  upon  the  babe  ?  " 

The  light  of  the  old  woman's  eyes  went 
out.  She  might  have  been  dead.  Father 
Pedro  waited  a  moment,  and  then  laid  his 
hand  impatiently  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Dost  thou  mean  there  are  none  ?  " 

A  ray  of  light  struggled  back  into  her 
eyes. 

"  None." 


62      AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

"  And  thou  hast  kept  back  or  put  away 
no  sign  nor  mark  of  her  parentage  ?  Tell 
me,  on  this  crucifix." 

The  eyes  caught  the  crucifix,  and  became 
as  empty  as  the  orbits  of  the  carven  Christ 
upon  it. 

Father  Pedro  waited  patiently.  A  mo- 
ment passed ;  only  the  sound  of  the  mule- 
teer's spurs  was  heard  in  the  courtyard. 

"  It  is  well,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief.  "  Pepita  shall  give  thee  some  re- 
freshment, and  Jos6  will  bring  thee  back 
again.  I  will  summon  him." 

He  passed  out  of  the  sacristy  door,  leav- 
ing it  open.  A  ray  of  sunlight  darted 
eagerly  in,  and  fell  upon  the  grotesque 
heap  in  the  corner.  Sanchicha's  eyes  lived 
again ;  more  than  that,  a  singular  move- 
ment came  over  her  face.  The  hideous 
caverns  of  her  toothless  mouth  opened  — 
she  laughed.  The  step  of  Jos£  was  heard 
in  the  corridor,  and  she  became  again  inert. 

The    third    day,    which    should    have 


AT   THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       63 

brought  the  return  of  Antonio,  was  nearly  , 
spent.  Father  Pedro  was  impatient  but 
not  alarmed.  The  good  fathers  at  San 
Jose  might  naturally  detain  Antonio  for 
the  answer,  which  might  require  delibera- 
tion. If  any  mischance  had  occurred  to 
Francisco,  Antonio  would  have  returned  or 
sent  a  special  messenger.  At  sunset  he 
was  in  his  accustomed  seat  in  the  orchard, 
his  hands  clasped  over  the  breviary  in  his 
listless  lap,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  moun- 
tain between  him  and  that  mysterious  sea 
that  had  brought  so  much  into  his  life. 
He  was  filled  with  a  strange  desire  to  see 
it,  a  vague  curiosity  hitherto  unknown  to 
his  preoccupied  life ;  he  wished  to  gaze 
upon  that  strand,  perhaps  the  very  spot 
where  she  had  been  found ;  he  doubted  not 
his  questioning  eyes  would  discover  some 
forgotten  trace  of  her ;  under  his  persistent 
will  and  aided  by  the  Holy  Virgin,  the  sea 
would  give  up  its  secret.  He  looked  at  the 
fog  creeping  along  the  summit,  and  recalled 


64       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

the  latest  gossip  of  San  Carmel ;  how  that 
since  the  advent  of  the  Americanos  it  was 
gradually  encroaching  on  the  Mission.  The 
hated  name  vividly  recalled  to  him  the 
features  of  the  stranger  as  he  had  stood  be- 
fore him  three  nights  ago,  in  this  very  gar- 
den ;  so  vividly  that  he  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  an  exclamation.  It  was  no  fancy, 
but  Senor  Cranch  himself  advancing  from 
under  the  shadow  of  a  pear  tree. 

"  I  reckoned  I  'd  catch  you  here,"  said 
Mr.  Cranch,  with  the  same  dry,  practical 
business  fashion,  as  if  he  was  only  resuming 
an  interrupted  conversation,  "  and  I  reckon 
I  ain't  going  to  keep  you  a  minit  longer 
than  I  did  t'  other  day."  He  mutely  re- 
ferred to  his  watch,  which  Be"  already  held 
in  his  hand,  and  then  put  it  back  in  his 
pocket.  "  Well !  we  found  her !  " 

"Francisco,"  interrupted  the  priest  with 
a  single  stride,  laying  his  hand  upon 
Cranch's  arm,  and  staring  into  his  eyes. 

Mr.  Cranch  quietly  removed  Father  Pe- 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       65 

dro's  hand.  "  I  reckon  that  was  n't  the 
name  as  /  caught  it,"  he  returned  dryly. 
"  Had  n't  you  better  sit  down  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me  —  pardon  me,  Senor,"  said 
the  priest,  hastily  sinking  back  upon  his 
bench,  "I  was  thinking  of  other  things. 
You  —  you  —  came  upon  me  suddenly.  I 
thought  it  was  the  acolyte.  Go  on,  Senor  I 
I  am  interested." 

"  I  thought  you  'd  be,"  said  Cranch, 
quietly.  "  That 's  why  I  came.  And  then 
you  might  be  of  service  too." 

"  True,  true,"  said  the  priest,  with  rapid 
accents ;  "  and  this  girl,  Senor,  this  girl 
is"  — 

"  Juanita,  the  mestiza,  adopted  daughter 
of  Don  Juan  Briones,  over  on  the  Santa 
Clare  Valley,"  replied  Cranch,  jerking  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder,  and  then  sitting 
down  upon  the  bench  beside  Father  Pedro. 

The  priest  turned  his  feverish  eyes  pier- 
cingly upon  his  companion  for  a  few  sec- 
onds, and  then  doggedly  fixed  them  upon 


66       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

the  ground.  Cranch  drew  a  plug  of  tobacco 
from  his  pocket,  cut  off  a  portion,  placed  it 
in  his  cheek,  and  then  quietly  began  to 
strap  the  blade  of  his  jack-knife  upon  his 
..  boot.  Father  Pedro  saw  it  from  under  his 
eyelids,  and  even  in  his  preoccupation  de- 
spised him. 

"  Then  you  are  certain  she  is  the  babe 
you  seek  ?  "  said  the  father,  without  look- 
ing up. 

—  "  I  reckon  as  near  as  you  can  be  certain 
of  anything.  Her  age  tallies  ;  she  was  the 
only  foundling  girl  baby  baptized  by  you, 
you  know,"  —  he  partly  turned  round  ap- 
pealingly  to  the  Padre,  —  "  that  year.  In- 
jin  woman  says  she  picked  up  a  baby. 
Looks  like  a  pretty  clear  cas'ei  don't  it  ?  " 

"  And  the  clothes,  friend  Cranch  ?  "  said 
the  priest,  with  his  eyes  still  on  the  ground, 
and  a  slight  assumption  of  easy  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  They  will  be  forthcoming,  like  enough, 
when  the  time  comes,"  said  Cranch;  "the 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       67 

main  thing  at  first  was  to  find  the  girl ; 
that  was  my  job ;  the  lawyers,  I  reckon, 
can  fit  the  proofs  and  say  what 's  wanted, 
later  on." 

"  But  why  lawyers,"  continued  Padre 
Pedro,  with  a  slight  sneer  he  could  not  re- 
press, "if  the  child  is  found  and  Senor 
Cranch  is  satisfied  ?  " 

"  On  account  of  the  property.  Business 
is  business !  " 

"The  property?" 

Mr.  Cranch  pressed  the  back  of  his  knife- 
blade  on  his  boot,  shut  it  up  with  a  click, 
and  putting  it  in  his  pocket  said  calmly,  — 

"Well,  I  reckon  the  million  of  dollars 
that  her  father  left  when  he  died,  which 
naturally  belongs  to  her,  will  require  some 
proof  that  she  is  his  daughter." 

He  had  placed  both  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  turned  his  eyes  full  upon  Fa- 
ther Pedro.  The  priest  arose  hurriedly. 

"But  you  said  nothing  of  this  before, 
Senor  Cranch,"  said  he,  with  a  gesture  of 


68       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

indignation,  turning  his  back  quite  upon 
Cranch,  and  taking  a  step  towards  the  re- 
fectory. 

"  Why  should  I  ?  I  was  looking  after  the 
girl,  not  the  property,"  returned  Cranch, 
following  the  Padre  with  watchful  eyes, 
but  still  keeping  his  careless,  easy  attitude. 

"Ah,  well!  Will  it  be  said  so,  think 
you?  Eh!  Bueno.  What  will  the  world 
think  of  your  sacred  quest,  eh  ?  "  continued 
the  Padre  Pedro,  forgetting  himself  in  his 
excitement,  but  still  averting  his  face  from 
his  companion. 

"  The  world  will  look  after  the  proofs, 
and  I  reckon  not  bother  if  the  proofs  are 
all  right,"  replied  Cranch,  carelessly ;  "  and 
the  girl  won't  think  the  wor*se  of  me  for 
helping  her  to  a  fortune.  Hallo !  you  've 
dropped  something."  He  leaped  to  his  feet, 
picked  up  the  breviary  which  had  fallen 
from  the  Padre's  fingers,  and  returned  it  to 
him  with  a  slight  touch  of  gentleness  that 
was  unsuspected  in  the  man. 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       69 

The  priest's  dry,  tremulous  hand  grasped 
the  volume  without  acknowledgment. 

"  But  these  proofs?"  he  said  hastily; 
"  these  proofs,  Senor  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  you  '11  testify  to  the  baptism, 
you  know." 

"  But  if  I  refuse  ;  if  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  this  thing !  If  I  will  not  give 
my  word  that  there  is  not  some  mistake," 
said  the  priest,  working  himself  into  a 
feverish  indignation.  "  That  there  are  not 
slips  of  memory,  eh  ?  Of  so  many  children 
baptized,  is  it  possible  for  me  to  know 
which,  eh  ?  And  if  this  Juanita  is  not 
your  girl,  eh  ?  " 

"  Then  you  '11  help  me  to  find  who  is," 
said  Cranch,  coolly. 

Father  Pedro  turned  furiously  on  his  tor- 
mentor. Overcome  by  his  vigil  and  anx- 
iety he  was  oblivious  of  everything  but 
the  presence  of  the  man  who  seemed  to 
usurp  the  functions  of  his  own  conscience. 
"  Who  are  you,  who  speak  thus  ? "  he 


70       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

said  hoarsely,  advancing  upon  Cranch  with 
outstretched  and  anathematizing  fingers. 
"  Who  are  you,  Senor  Heathen,  who  dare 
to  dictate  to  me,  a  Father  of  Holy  Church  ? 
I  tell  you,  I  will  have  none  of  this.  Never ! 
I  will  not.  From  this  moment,  you  under- 
stand —  nothing.  I  will  never  "... 

He  stopped.  The  first  stroke  of  the  An- 
gelus  rang  from  the  little  tower.  The  first 
stroke  of  that  bell  before  whose  magic  ex- 
orcism all  human  passions  fled,  the  peace- 
ful bell  that  had  for  fifty  years  lulled  the 
little  fold  of  San  Carniel  to  prayer  and 
rest,  came  to  his  throbbing  ear.  His  trem- 
bling hands  groped  for  the  crucifix,  car- 
ried it  to  his  left  breast ;  his  lips  moved  in 
prayer.  His  eyes  were  turned  to  the  cold, 
passionless  sky,  where  a  few  faint,  far-spaced 
stars  had  silently  stolen  to  their  places.  The 
Angelus  still  rang,  his  trembling  ceased,  he 
remained  motionless  and  rigid. 

The  American,  who  had  uncovered  H 
deference  to  the  worshiper  rather  than  the 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       71 

rite,  waited  patiently.  The  eyes  of  Father 
Pedro  returned  to  the  earth,  moist  as  if 
with  dew  caught  from  above.  He  looked 
half  absently  at  Cranch. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  son,"  he  said,  in  a 
changed  voice.  "  I  am  only  a  worn  old 
man.  I  must  talk  with  thee  more  of  this 
—  but  not  to-night  —  not  to-night ;  —  to- 
morrow —  to-morrow  —  to-morrow." 

He  turned  slowly  and  appeared  to  glide 
rather  than  move  under  the  trees,  until  the 
dark  shadow  of  the  Mission  tower  met  and 
encompassed  him.  Cranch  followed  him 
with  anxious  eyes.  Then  he  removed  the 
quid  of  tobacco  from  his  cheek. 

"  Just  as  I  reckoned,"  remarked  he,  quite 
audibly.  "  He 's  clean  gold  on  the  bed 
rock  after  all !  " 

IV. 

That  night  Father  Pedro  dreamed  a 
strange  dream.  How  much  of  it  was  real- 


72       AT   THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CAR  MEL. 

ity,  how  long  it  lasted,  or  when  he  awoke 
from  it,  he  could  not  tell.  The  morbid  ex- 
citement of  the  previous  day  culminated  in 
a  febrile  exaltation  in  which  he  lived  and 
moved  as  in  a  separate  existence. 

This  is  what  he  remembered.  He 
thought  he  had  risen  at  night  in  a  sudden 
horror  of  remorse,  and  making  his  way  to 
the  darkened  church  had  fallen  upon  his 
knees  before  the  high  altar,  when  all  at 
once  the  acolyte's  voice  broke  from  the 
choir,  but  in  accents  so  dissonant  and  un- 
natural that  it  seemed  a  sacrilege,  and  he 
trembled.  He  thought  he  had  confessed 
the  secret  of  the  child's  sex  to  Cranch,  but 
whether  the  next  morning  or  a  week  later 
he  did  not  know.  He  fancied,  too,  that 
Cranch  had  also  confessed  some  trifling  de- 
ception to  him,  but  what,  or  why,  he  could 
not  remember;  so  much  greater  seemed 
the  enormity  of  his  own  transgression.  He 
thought  Cranch  had  put  in  his  hands  the 
letter  he  had  written  to  the  Father  Supe- 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       73 

rior,  saying  that  his  secret  was  still  safe, 
and  that  he  had  been  spared  the  avowal 
and  the  scandal  that  might  have  ensued. 
But  through  all,  and  above  all,  he  was  con- 
scious of  one  fixed  idea:  to  seek  the  sea- 
shore with  Sanchicha,  and  upon  the  spot 
where  she  had  found  Francisco,  meet  the 
young  girl  who  had  taken  his  place,  and  so 
part  from  her  forever.  He  had  a  dim  rec- 
ollection that  this  was  necessary  to  some 
legal  identification  of  her,  as  arranged  by 
Cranch,  but  how  or  why  he  did  not  under- 
stand ;  enough  that  it  was  a  part  of  his 
penance. 

It  was  early  morning  when  the  faithful 
Antonio,  accompanied  by  Sanchicha  and 
Jose,  rode  forth  with  him  from  the  Mission 
of  San  Carmel.  Except  on  the  expression- 
less features  of  the  old  woman,  there  was 
anxiety  and  gloom  upon  the  faces  of  the 
little  cavalcade.  He  did  not  know  how 
heavily  his  strange  abstraction  and  halluci- 
nations weighed  upon  their  honest  hearts. 


74       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

As  they  wound  up  the  ascent  of  the  moun- 
tain he  noticed  that  Antonio  and  Jos£  con- 
versed with  bated  breath  and  many  pious 
crossings  of  themselves,  but  with  eyes  al- 
ways wistfully  fixed  upon  him.  He  won- 
dered if,  as  part  of  his  penance,  he  ought 
not  to  proclaim  his  sin  and  abase  himself 
before  them ;  but  he  knew  that  his  devoted 
followers  would  insist  upon  sharing  his  pun- 
ishment ;  and  he  remembered  his  promise 
to  Cranch,  that  for  her  sake  he  would  say 
nothing.  Before  they  reached  the  summit 
he  turned  once  or  twice  to  look  back  upon 
the  Mission.  How  small  it  looked,  lying 
there  in  the  peaceful  valley,  contrasted 
with  the  broad  sweep  of  the^  landscape  be- 
yond, stopped  at  the  further  east  only  by 
the  dim,  ghost-like  outlines  of  the  Sierras. 
But  the  strong  breath  of  the  sea  was  begin- 
ning to  be  felt ;  in  a  few  moments  more 
they  were  facing  it  with  lowered  sombreros 
and  flying  serapes,  and  the  vast,  glittering, 
illimitable  Pacific  opened  out  beneath  them. 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       75 

Dazed  and  blinded,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
by  the  shining,  restless  expanse,  Father 
Pedro  rode  forward  as  if  still  in  a  dream. 
Suddenly  he  halted,  and  called  Antonio  to 
his  side. 

"  Tell  me,  child,  didst  thou  not  say  that 
this  coast  was  wild  and  desolate  of  man, 
beast,  and  habitation  ?  " 

"  Truly  I  did,  reverend  father." 

"  Then  what  is  that  ?  "  pointing  to  the 
shore. 

Almost  at  their  feet  nestled  a  cluster  of 
houses,  at  the  head  of  an  arroyo  reaching  up 
from  the  beach.  They  looked  down  upon 
the  smoke  of  a  manufactory  chimney,  upon 
strange  heaps  of  material  and  curious  en- 
gines scattered  along  the  sands,  with  here 
and  there  moving  specks  of  human  figures. 
In  a  little  bay  a  schooner  swung  at  her 
cables. 

The  vaquero  crossed  himself  in  stupefied 
alarm.  "  I  know  not,  your  reverence  ;  it 
is  only  two  years  ago,  before  the  rodeo,  that 


76       AT  THE   IfrSSfON  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

I  was  here  for  strayed  colts,  and  I  swear  by 
the  blessed  bones  of  San  Antonio  that  it 
was  as  I  said." 

"  Ah !  it  is  like  these  Americanos,"  re- 
sponded the  muleteer.  "  I  have  it  from  my 
brother  Diego  that  he  went  from  San  Jos6 
to  Pescadero  two  months  ago,  across  the 
plains,  with  never  a  hut  nor  fonda  to  halt 
at  all  the  way.  He  returned  in  seven  days, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  plain  there  were 
three  houses  and  a  mill,  and  many  people. 
And  why  was  it  ?  Ah !  Mother  of  God  I 
one  had  picked  up  in  the  creek  where  he 
drank  that  much  of  gold ;  "  and  the  mule- 
teer tapped  one  of  the  silver  coins  that 
fringed  his  jacket  sleeves  in  place  of  but- 
tons. 

"  And  they  are  washing  the  sands  for 
gold  there  now,",  said  Antonio,  eagerly 
pointing  to  some  men  gathered  round  a 
machine  like  an  enormous  cradle.  "  Let  us 
hasten  on." 

Father  Pedro's  momentary  interest  had 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CAR  MEL.       77 

passed.  The  words  of  his  companions  fell 
dull  and  meaningless  upon  his  dreaming 
ears.  He  was  conscious  only  that  the  child 
was  more  a  stranger  to  him  as  an  outcome 
of  this  hard,  bustling  life,  than  when  he 
believed  her  borne  to  him  over  the  mysteri- 
ous sea.  It  perplexed  his  dazed,  disturbed 
mind  to  think  that  if  such  an  antagonistic 
element  could  exist  within  a  dozen  miles 
of  the  Mission,  and  he  not  know  it,  could 
not  such  an  atmosphere  have  b'een  around 
him,  even  in  his  monastic  isolation,  and  he 
remain  blind  to  it?  Had  he  really  lived 
in  the  world  without  knowing  it  ?  Had  it 
been  in  his  blood  ?  Had  it  impelled  him 
to  —  He  shuddered  and  rode  on. 

They  were  at  the  last  slope  of  the  zigzag 
descent  to  the  shore,  when  he  saw  the  fig- 
ures of  a  man  and  woman  moving  slowly 
through  a  field  of  wild  oats,  not  far  from 
the  trail.  It  seemed  to  his  distorted  fancy 
that  the  man  was  Cranch.  The  woman  ! 
His  heart  stopped  beating.  Ah  I  could  it 


78       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

be  ?  He  had  never  seen  her  in  her  proper 
garb:  would  she  look  like  that?  Would 
she  be  as  tall?  He  thought  he  bade  Jose* 
and  Antonio  go  on  slowly  before  with  San- 
chicha,  and  dismounted,  walking  slowly 
between  the  high  stalks  of  grain,  lest  he 
should  disturb  them.  They  evidently  did 
not  hear  his  approach,  but  were  talking 
earnestly.  It  seemed  to  Father  Pedro  that 
they  had  taken  each  other's  hands,  and  as 
he  looked  Cranch  slipped  his  arm  round 
her  waist.  With  only  a  blind  instinct  of 
some  dreadful  sacrilege  in  this  act,  Father 
Pedro  would  have  rushed  forward,  when 
the  girl's  voice  struck  his  ear.  He  stopped, 
breathless.  It  was  not  Francisco,  but  Jtia- 
nita,  the  little  mestizo,. 

"But  are  you  sure  you  are  not  pretend- 
ing to  love  me  now,  as  you  pretended  to 
think  I  was  the  muchacha  you  had  run 
away  with  and  lost  ?  Are  you  sure  it  is 
not  pity  for  the  deceit  you  practiced  upon 
me  —  upon  Don  Juan  —  upon  poor  Father 
Pedro?" 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       79 

It  seemed  as  if  Cranch  had  tried  to  an- 
swer with  a  kiss,  for  the  girl  drew  suddenly 
away  from  him  with  a  coquettish  fling  of 
the  black  braids,  and  whipped  her  little 
brown  hands  behind  her. 

"  Well,  look  here,"  said  Cranch,  with  the 
same  easy,  good-natured,  practical  direct- 
ness which  the  priest  remembered,  and 
which  would  have  passed  for  philosophy  in 
a  more  thoughtful  man,  "  put  it  squarely, 
then.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  Don  Juan 
and  the  alcalde  who  first  suggested  you 
might  be  the  child." 

"  But  you  have  said  you  knew  it  was 
Francisco  all  the  time,"  interrupted  Jua- 
nita. 

"  I  did  ;  but  when  I  found  the  priest 
would  not  assist  me  at  first,  and  admit  that 
the  acolyte  was  a  girl,  I  preferred  to  let 
him  think  I  was  deceived  in  giving  a  for- 
tune to  another,  and  leave  it  to  his  own 
conscience  to  permit  it  or  frustrate  it.  I 
was  right.  I  reckon  it  was  pretty  hard  on 


80       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CAR  MEL. 

the  old  man,  at  his  time  of  life,  and  wrapped 
up  as  he  was  in  the  girl ;  but  at  the  mo- 
ment he  came  up  to  the  scratch  like  a 
man." 

"  And  to  save  him  you  have  deceived 
me  ?  Thank  you,  Senor,"  said  the  girl 
with  a  mock  curtsey. 

"  I  reckon  I  preferred  to  have  you  for 
a  wife  than  a  daughter,"  said  Cranch,  "  if 
that 's  what  you  mean.  When  you  know 
me  better,  Juanita,"  he  continued,  gravely, 
"  you  '11  know  that  I  would  never  have  let 
you  believe  I  sought  in  you  the  one  if  I  had 
not  hoped  to  find  in  you  the  other." 

"  Bueno !  And  when  did  you  have  that 
pretty  hope  ?  " 

"  When  I  first  saw  you."   .  • 

"And  that  was  —  two  weeks  ago." 

"  A  year  ago,  Juanita.  When  Francisco 
visited  you  at  the  rancho.  I  followed  and 
saw  you." 

Juanita  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and 
then  suddenly  darted  at  him,  caught  him 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CAR  MEL.       81 

by  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and  shook  him  like 
a  terrier. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  did  not  love  that 
Francisco  ?  Speak !  "  (She  shook  him 
again.)  "  Swear  that  you  did  not  follow 
her!" 

"But — I  did,"  said  Cranch,  laughing 
and  shaking  between  the  clenching  of  the 
little  hands. 

"  Judas  Iscariot !  Swear  you  do  not  love 
her  all  this  while." 

"  But,  Juanita  !  " 

"  Swear ! " 

Cranch  swore.  Then  to  Father  Pedro's 
intense  astonishment  she  drew  the  Ameri- 
can's face  towards  her  own  by  the  ears  and 
kissed  him. 

"But  you  might  have  loved  her,  and 
married  a  fortune,"  said  Juanita,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Where  would  have  been  my  reparation 
—  my  duty?"  returned  Cranch,  with  a 
laugh. 


82       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

"  Reparation  enough  for  her  to  have  had 
you,'*  said  Juanita,  with  that  rapid  disloy- 
alty of  one  loving  woman  to  another  in  an 
emergency.  This  provoked  another  kiss 
from  Cranch,  and  then  Juanita  said  de- 
murely, — 

"  But  we  are  far  from  the  trail.  Let  us 
return,  or  we  shall  miss  Father  Pedro. 
Are  you  sure  he  will  come  ?  " 

"  A  week  ago  he  promised  to  be  here  to 
see  the  proofs  to-day." 

The  voices  were  growing  fainter  and 
fainter ;  they  were  returning  to  the  trail. 

Father  Pedro  remained  motionless.  A 
week  ago !  Was  it  a  week  ago  since  — 
since  what  ?  And  what  had  he  been  doing 
here?  Listening!  He !  Father  Pedro,  list- 
ening like  an  idle  peon  to  the  confidences 
of  two  lovers.  But  they  had  talked  of  him, 
of  his  crime,  and  the  man  had  pitied  him. 
Why  did  he  not  speak  ?  Why  did  he  not 
call  after  them?  He  tried  to  raise  his 
voice.  It  sank  in  his  throat  with  a  horri- 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAW  CARMEL.       83 

ble  choking  sensation.  The  nearest  heads 
of  oats  began  to  nod  to  him,  he  felt  him- 
self swaying  backwards  and  forwards.  He 
fell  —  heavily,  down,  down,  down,  from 
the  summit  of  the  mountain  to  the  floor 
of  the  Mission  chapel,  and  there  he  lay  in 
the  dark. 

"  He  moves." 

44  Blessed  Saint  Anthony  preserve  him !  " 

It  was  Antonio's  voice,  it  was  Jose's  arm, 
it  was  the  field  of  wild  oats,  the  sky  above 
his  head,  —  all  unchanged. 

44  What  has  happened  ?  "  said  the  priest 
feebly. 

44  A  giddiness  seized  your  reverence  just 
now,  as  we  were  coming  to  seek  you." 

44  And  you  met  no  one  ?  " 

44  No  one,  your  reverence." 

Father  Pedro  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead. 

44  But  who  are  these  ?  "  he  said,  pointing 
to  two  figures  who  now  appeared  upon  the 
trail. 


84       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

Antonio  turned. 

"  It  is  the  Americano,  Senor  Cranch,  and 
his  adopted  daughter,  the  mestiza  Juanita, 
seeking  your  reverence,  me  thinks." 

"Ah  !  "  said  Father  Pedro. 

Cranch  came  forward  and  greeted  the 
priest  cordially. 

"  It  was  kind  of  you,  Father  Pedro,"  he 
said,  meaningly,  with  a  significant  glance 
at  Jos6  and  Antonio,  "to  come  so  far  to 
bid  me  and  my  adopted  daughter  farewell. 
We  depart  when  the  tide  serves,  but  not 
before  you  partake  of  our  hospitality  in 
yonder  cottage." 

Father  Pedro  gazed  at  Cranch  and  then 
at  Juanita. 

"I  see,"  he  stammered.  ""But  she  goes 
not  alone.  She  will  be  strange  at  first. 
She  takes  some  friend,  perhaps  —  some 
companion  ?  "  he  continued,  tremulously. 

"  A  very  old  and  dear  one,  Father  Pedro, 
who  is  waiting  for  us  now." 

He  led  the  way  to  a  little  white  cottage, 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C  ARM  EL.       85 

so  little  and  white  and  recent,  that  it 
seemed  a  mere  fleck  of  sea  foam  cast  on  the 
sands.  Disposing  of  Jose  and  Antonio  in 
the  neighboring  workshop  and  outbuildings, 
he  assisted  the  venerable  Sanchicha  to  dis- 
mount, and,  together  with  Father  Pedro 
and  Juanita,  entered  a  white  palisaded  en- 
closure beside  the  cottage,  and  halted  before 
what  appeared  to  be  a  large,  folding  trap- 
door, covering  a  slight  sandy  mound.  It 
was  locked  with  a  padlock  ;  beside  it  stood 
the  American  alcalde  and  Don  Juan  Bri- 
ones.  Father  Pedro  looked  hastily  around 
for  another  figure,  but  it  was  not  there. 

"  Gentlemen,"  began  Cranch,  in  his  prac- 
tical business  way,  "  I  reckon  you  all  know 
we  've  come  here  to  identify  a  young  lady, 
who  "  —  he  hesitated —  "was  lately  under 
the  care  of  Father  Pedro,  with  a  foundling 
picked  up  on  this  shore  fifteen  years  ago  by 
an  Indian  woman.  How  this  foundling 
came  here,  and  how  I  was  concerned  in  it, 
you  all  know.  I  've  told  everybody  here 


86       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CAR  MEL. 

how  I  scrambled  ashore,  leaving  that  baby 
in  the  dingy,  supposing  it  would  be  picked 
up  by  the  boat  pursuing  me.  I  've  told 
some  of  you,"  he  looked  at  Father  Pedro, 
"how  I  first  discovered,  from  one  of  the 
men,  three  years  ago,  that  the  child  was 
not  found  by  its  father.  But  I  have  never 
told  any  one,  before  now,  I  knew  it  was 
picked  up  here. 

"  I  never  could  tell  the  exact  locality 
where  I  came  ashore,  for  the  fog  was  com- 
ing on  as  it  is  now.  But  two  years  ago  I 
came  up  with  a  party  of  gold  hunters  to 
work  these  sands.  One  day,  digging  near 
this  creek,  I  struck  something  embedded 
deep  below  the  surface.  Well,  gentlemen, 
it  was  n't  gold,  but  something"  worth  more 
to  me  than  gold  or  silver.  Here  it  is." 

At  a  sign  the  alcalde  unlocked  the  doors 
and  threw  them  open.  They  disclosed  an 
irregular  trench,  in  which,  filled  with  sand, 
lay  the  half-excavated  stern  of  a  boat. 

"  It  was  the  dingy  of  the  Trinidad,  gen- 


AT   THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL.       87 

tlemen;  you  can  still  read  her  name.  I 
found  hidden  away,  tucked  under  the  stern 
sheets,  mouldy  and  water- worn,  some  clothes 
that  I  recognized  to  be  the  baby's.  I  knew 
then  that  the  child  had  been  taken  away 
alive  for  some  purpose,  and  the  clothes  were 
left  so  that  she  should  carry  no  trace  with 
her.  I  recognized  the  hand  of  an  Indian. 
I  set  to  work  quietly.  I  found  Sanchicha 
here,  she  confessed  to  finding  a  baby,  but 
what  she  had  done  with  it  she  would  not 
at  first  say.  But  since  then  she  has  de- 
clared before  the  alcalde  that  she  gave  it  to 
Father  Pedro,  of  San  Carmel,  and  that  here 
it  stands  —  Francisco  that  was !  Francisca 
that  it  is !  " 

He  stepped  aside  to  make  way  for  a  tall 
girl,  who  had  approached  from  the  cottage. 

Father  Pedro  had  neither  noticed  the 
concluding  words  nor  the  movement  of 
Cranch.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
imbecile  Sanchicha,  —  Sanchicha,  on  whom, 
to  render  his  rebuke  more  complete,  the 


88       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  C ARM  EL. 

Deity  seemed  to  have  worked  a  miracle, 
and  restored  intelligence  to  eye  and  lip. 
He  passed  his  hand  tremblingly  across  his 
forehead,  and  turned  away,  when  his  eye 
fell  upon  the  last  comer. 

It  was  she.  The  moment  he  had  longed 
for  and  dreaded  had  come.  She  stood  there, 
animated,  handsome,  filled  with  a  hurtful 
consciousness  in  her  new  charms,  her  fresh 
finery,  and  the  pitiable  trinkets  that  had 
supplanted  her  scapulary,  and  which  played 
under  her  foolish  fingers.  The  past  had 
no  place  in  her  preoccupied  mind  ;  her 
bright  eyes  were  full  of  eager  anticipation 
of  a  substantial  future.  The  incarnation 
of  a  frivolous  world,  even  as  she  extended 
one  hand  to  him  in  half-coquettish  embar- 
rassment, she  arranged  the  folds  of  her 
dress  with  the  other.  At  the  touch  of  her 
fingers,  he  felt  himself  growing  old  and 
cold.  Even  the  penance  of  parting,  which 
he  had  looked  forward  to,  was  denied  him  ; 
there  was  no  longer  sympathy  enough  for 


AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL.       89 

sorrow.  He  thought  of  the  empty  choris- 
ter's robe  in  the  little  cell,  but  not  now  with 
regret.  He  only  trembled  to  think  of  the 
flesh  that  he  had  once  caused  to  inhabit  it. 

"  That 's  all,  gentlemen,"  broke  in  the 
practical  voice  of  Cranch.  "  Whether  there 
are  proofs  enough  to  make  Francisca  the 
heiress  of  her  father's  wealth,  the  lawyers 
must  say.  I  reckon  it 's  enough  for  me 
that  they  give  me  the  chance  of  repairing  a 
wrong  by  taking  her  father's  place.  After 
all,  it  was  a  mere  chance." 

"It  was  the  will  of  God,"  said  Father 
Pedro,  solemnly. 

They  were  the  last  words  he  addressed 
them.  For  when  the  fog  had  begun  to 
creep  in  shore,  hastening  their  departure, 
he  only  answered  their  farewells  by  a  silent 
pressure  of  the  hand,  mute  lips,  and  far-off 
eyes* 

When  the  sound  of  their  laboring  oars 
grew  fainter,  he  told  Antonio  to  lead  him 
and  Sanchicha  again  to  the  buried  boat. 
There  he  bade  her  kneel  beside  him.  "  We 


90       AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  CARMEL. 

will  do  penance  here,  thou  and  I,  daughter," 
he  said,  gravely.  When  the  fog-  had  drawn 
its  curtain  gently  around  the  strange  pair, 
and  sea  and  shore  were  blotted  out,  he  whis- 
pered, "  Tell  me,  it  was  even  so,  was  it  not, 
daughter,  on  the  night  she  came  ?  "  When 
the  distant  clatter  of  blocks  and  rattle  of 
cordage  came  from  the  unseen  vessel,  now 
standing  out  to  sea,  he  whispered  again, 
"So,  this  is  what  thou  didst  hear,  even 
then."  And  so  during  the  night  he  marked, 
more  or  less  audibly  to  the  half-conscious 
woman  at  his  side,  the  low  whisper  of  the 
waves,  the  murmur  of  the  far-off  breakers, 
the  lightening  and  thickening  of  the  fog, 
the  phantoms  of  moving  shapes,  and  the 
slow  coming  of  the  dawn.  Arid  when  the 
morning  sun  had  rent  the  veil  over  land 
and  sea,  Antonio  and  Josd  found  him,  hag- 
gard, but  erect,  beside  the  trembling  old 
woman,  with  a  blessing  on  his  lips,  point- 
ing to  the  horizon  where  a  single  sail  still 
glimmered :  — 

"  Va  listed  con  Dios" 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 


I. 

SHE  was  barely  twenty-three  years  old. 
It  is  probable  that  up  to  that  age,  and  the 
beginning  of  this  episode,  her  life  had  been 
uneventful.  Born  to  the  easy  mediocrity 
of  such  compensating  extremes  as  a  small 
farmhouse  and  large  lands,  a  good  position 
and  no  society,  in  that  vast  grazing  district 
of  Kentucky  known  as  the  "  Blue  Grass  " 
region,  all  the  possibilities  of  a  Western 
American  girl's  existence  lay  before  her. 
A  piano  in  the  bare-walled  house,  the  latest 
patented  mower  in  the  limitless  meadows, 
and  a  silk  dress  sweeping  the  rough  floor 
of  the  unpainted  "  meeting-house "  were 


92  A  SLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

already  the  promise  of  those  possibilities. 
Beautiful  she  was,  but  the  power  of  that 
beauty  was  limited  by  being  equally  shared 
with  her  few  neighbors.  There  were  small, 
narrow,  arched  feet  besides  her  own  that 
trod  the  uncarpeted  floors  of  outlying  log- 
cabins  with  e^ual  grace  and  dignity  ;  bright, 
clearly  opened  eyes  that  were  equally  ca- 
pable of  looking  unabashed  upon  princes 
and  potentates,  as  a  few  later  did,  and  the 
heiress  of  the  count}7  judge  read  her  own 
beauty  without  envy  in  the  frank  glances 
and  unlowered  crest  of  the  blacksmith's 
daughter.  Eventually  she  had  married  the 
male  of  her  species,  a  young  stranger,  who, 
as  schoolmaster  in  the  nearest  town,  had 
utilized  to  some  local  extent  -a-  scant  capital 
of  education.  In  obedience  to  the  unwrit- 
ten law  of  the  West,  after  the  marriage 
was  celebrated  the  doors  of  the  ancestral 
home  cheerfully  opened,  and  bride  and 
bridegroom  issued  forth,  without  regret  and 
without  sentiment,  to  seek  the  further  pos- 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  93 

sibilities  of  a  life  beyond  these  already  too 
familiar  voices.  With  their  departure  for 
California  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spencer  Tucker, 
the  parental  nest  in  the  Blue  Grass  meadows 
knew  them  no  more. 

They  submitted  with  equal  cheerfulness 
to  the  privations  and  excesses  of  their  new 
conditions.  Within  three  years  the  school- 
master developed  into  a  lawyer  and  capital- 
ist, the  Blue  Grass  bride  supplying  a  grace 
and  ease  to  these  transitions  that  were  all 
her  own.  She  softened  the  abruptness  of 
sudden  wealth,  mitigated  the  austerities  of 
newly  acquired  power,  and  made  the  most 
glaring  incongruity  picturesque.  Only  one 
thing  seemed  to  limit  their  progress  in  the 
region  of  these  possibilities.  They  were 
childless.  It  was  as  if  they  had  exhausted 
the  future  in  their  own  youth,  leaving  lit- 
tle or  nothing  for  another  generation  to  do. 

A  southwesterly  storm  was  beating  against 
the  dressing-room  windows  of  their  new 


94  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

house  in  one  of  the  hilly  suburbs  of  San 
Francisco,  and  threatening  the  unseason- 
able frivolity  of  the  stucco  ornamentation 
of  cornice  and  balcony.  Mrs.  Tucker  had 
been  called  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
dreary  prospect  without  by  the  arrival  of  a 
visitor.  On  entering  the  drawing-room  she 
found  him  engaged  in  a  half -admiring,  half- 
resentful  examination  of  its  new  furniture 
and  hangings.  Mrs.  Tucker  at  once  recog- 
nized Mr.  Calhoun  Weaver,  a  former  Blue 
Grass  neighbor ;  with  swift  feminine  intui- 
tion she  also  felt  that  his  slight  antagonism 
was  likely  to  be  transferred  from  her  furni- 
ture to  herself.  Waiving  it  with  the  lazy 
amiability  of  ^Southern  indifference,  she 
welcomed  him  by  the  familiarity  of  a  Chris- 
tian name. 

"  I  reckoned  that  mebbee  you  opined  old 
Blue  Grass  friends  would  n't  naturally  hitch 
on  to  them  fancy  doins,"  he  said,  glancing 
around  the  apartment  to  avoid  her  clear 
eyes,  as  if  resolutely  setting  himself  against 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  95 

the  old  charm  of  her  manner  as  he  had 
against  the  more  recent  glory  of  her  sur- 
roundings, "  but  I  thought  I  'd  just  drop  in 
for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

"  Why  should  n't  you,  Cal  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Tucker  with  a  frank  smile. 

"  Especially  as  I  'm  going  up  to  Sac- 
ramento to-night  with  some  influential 
friends,"  he  continued,  with  an  ostentation 
calculated  to  resist  the  assumption  of  her 
charms  and  her  furniture.  "  Senator  Dyce 
of  Kentucky,  and  his  cousin  Judge  Briggs ; 
perhaps  you  know  'em,  or  may  be  Spencer 
—  I  mean  Mr.  Tucker  —  does." 

"  I  reckon,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker  smiling ; 
"but  tell  me  something  about  the  boys 
and  girls  at  Vineville,  and  about  yourself. 
You  \e  looking  well,  and  right  smart  too." 
She  paused  to  give  due  emphasis  to  this 
latter  recognition  of  a  huge  gold  chain  with 
which  her  visitor  was  somewhat  ostenta- 
tiously trifling. 

"I  didn't  know  as  you   cared  to  hear 


96  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

anything  about  Blue  Grass,"  he  returned, 
a  little  abashed.  "  I '  ve  been  away  from 
there  some  time  myself,"  he  added,  his  un- 
easy vanity  taking  fresh  alarm  at  the  faint 
suspicion  of  patronage  on  the  part  of  his 
hostess.  "  They  're  doin'  well,  though ;  per- 
haps as  well  as  some  others." 

"  And  you  're  not  married  yet,"  continued 
Mrs.  Tucker,  oblivious  of  the  innuendo. 
*'  Ah  Cal,"  she  added  archly,  "  I  am  afraid 
you  are  as  fickle  as  ever.  What  poor  girl 
in  Vineville  have  you  left  pining  ?  " 

The  simple  face  of  the  man  before  her 
flushed  with  foolish  gratification  at  this  old- 
fashioned,  ambiguous  flattery.  "  Now  look 
yer,  Belle,"  he  said,  chuckling,  "  if  you  're 
talking  of  old  times  and  you  think  I  bear 
malice  agin  Spencer,  why  "  — 

But  Mrs.  Tucker  interrupted  what  might 
have  been  an  inopportune  sentimental  re- 
trospect with  a  finger  of  arch  but  languid 
warning.  "  That  will  do  !  I  'm  dying  to 
know  all  about  it,  and  you  must  stay  to 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  97 

dinner  and  tell  me.  It 's  right  mean  you 
can't  see  Spencer  too ;  but  he  is  n't  back 
from  Sacramento  yet." 

Grateful  as  a  tete-d-t£te  with  his  old 
neighbor  in  her  more  prosperous  surround- 
ings would  have  been,  if  only  for  the  sake 
of  later  gossiping  about  it,  he  felt  it  would 
be  inconsistent  with  his  pride  and  his  as- 
sumption of  present  business.  More  than 
that,  he  was  uneasily  conscious  that  in  Mrs. 
Tucker's  simple  and  unaffected  manner 
there  was  a  greater  superiority  than  he 
had  ever  noticed  during  their  previous  ac- 
quaintance. He  would  have  felt  kinder  to 
her  had  she  shown  any  "  airs  and  graces," 
which  l)e  could  have  commented  upon  and 
forgiven.  He  stammered  some  vague  ex- 
cuse of  preoccupation,  yet  lingered  in  the 
hope  of  saying  something  which,  if  not  ag- 
gressively unpleasant,  might  at  least  trans- 
fer to  her  indolent  serenity  some  of  his 
own  irritation.  "  I  reckon,"  he  said,  as  he 
moved  hesitatingly  towards  the  door,  "  that 


98  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

Spencer  has  made  himself  easy  and  secure 
in  them  business  risks  he  's  taking.  That 
'ere  Alameda  ditch  affair  they  're  talking 
so  much  about  is  a  mighty  big  thing,  rather 
too  big  if  it  ever  got  to  falling  back  on 
him.  But  I  suppose  he 's  accustomed  to 
take  risks  ?  " 

"  Of  course  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker 
gayly.  "He  married  me." 

The  visitor  smiled  feebly,  but  was  not 
equal  to  the  opportunity  offered  for  gallant 
repudiation.  "But  suppose  you  ain't  ac- 
customed to  risks  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  I  married  him"  said  Mrs. 
Tucker. 

Mr.  Calhoun  Weaver  was  human,  and 
succumbed  to  this  last  charming  audacity. 
He  broke  into  a  noisy  but  genuine  laugh, 
shook  Mrs.  Tucker's  hand  with  effusion, 
said,  "  Now  that 's  regular  Blue  Grass  and 
no  mistake !  "  and  retreated  under  cover  of 
his  hilarity.  In  the  hall  he  made  a  rally- 
ing stand  to  repeat  confidentially  to  the 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  99 

servant  who  had  overheard  them :  "  Blue 
Grass,  all  over,  you  bet  your  life,"  and, 
opening  the  door,  was  apparently  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  tempest. 

Mrs.  Tucker's  smile  kept  her  lips  until 
she  had  returned  to  her  room,  and  even 
then  languidly  shone  in  her  eyes  for  some 
minutes  after,  as  she  gazed  abstractedly 
from  her  window  on  the  storm-tossed  bay 
in  the  distance.  Perhaps  some  girlish 
vision  of  the  peaceful  Blue  Grass  plain  mo- 
mentarily usurped  the  prospect;  but  it  is 
to  be  doubted  if  there  was  much  romance 
in  that  retrospect,  or  that  it  was  more  in- 
teresting to  her  than  the  positive  and 
sharply  cut  outlines  of  the  practical  life 
she  now  held.  Howbeit  she  soon  forgot 
this  fancy  in  lazily  watching  a  boat  that, 
in  the  teeth  of  the  gale,  was  beating  round 
Alcatraz  Island.  Although  at  times  a  mere 
blank  speck  on  the  gray  waste  of  foam,  a 
closer  scrutiny  showed  it  to  be  one  of  those 
lateen-rigged  Italian  fishing-boats  that  so 


100  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

often  flecked  the  distant  bay.  Lost  in  the 
sudden  darkening  of  rain,  or  reappearing 
beneath  the  lifted  curtain  of  the  squall,  she 
watched  it  weather  the  island,  and  then 
turn  its  laboring  but  persistent  course  to- 
wards the  open  channel.  A  rent  in  the 
Indian-inky  sky,  that  showed  the  narrow- 
ing portals  of  the  Golden  Gate  beyond,  re- 
vealed, as  unexpectedly,  the  destination  of 
the  little  craft,  a  tall  ship  that  hitherto  lay 
hidden  in  the  mist  of  the  Saucelito  shore. 
As  the  distance  lessened  between  boat  and 
ship,  they  were  again  lost  in  the  downward 
swoop  of  another  squall.  When  it  lifted, 
the  ship  was  creeping  under  the  headland 
towards  the  open  sea,  but  the  boat  was 
gone.  Mrs.  Tucker  in  vain  rubbed  the 
pane  with  her  handkerchief,  it  had  van- 
ished. Meanwhile  the  ship,  as  she  neared 
the  Gate,  drew  out  from  the  protecting 
headland,  stood  outlined  for  a  moment  with 
spars  and  canvas  hearsed  in  black  against 
the  lurid  rent  in  the  horizon,  and  then 


A   BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.        -    101 

seemed  to  sink  slowly  into  the  heaving  ob- 
scurity beyond.  A  sudden  onset  of  rain 
against  the  windows  obliterated  the  remain- 
ing prospect ;  the  entrance  of  a  servant 
completed  the  diversion. 

"  Captain  Poindexter,  ma'am  !  " 

Mrs.  Tucker  lifted  her  pretty  eyebrows 
interrogatively.  Captain  Poindexter  was  a 
legal  friend  of  her  husband,  and  had  dined 
there  frequently  ;  nevertheless  she  asked, 
"  Did  you  tell  him  Mr.  Tucker  was  not  at 
home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  'm." 

"Did  he  ask  for  me?" 

«  Yes,  'm." 

"  Tell  him  I  '11  be  down  directly." 

Mrs.  Tucker's  quiet  face  did  not  betray 
the  fact  that  this  second  visitor  was  even 
less  interesting  than  the  first.  In  her  heart 
she  did-  not  like  Captain  Poindexter.  With 
a  clever  woman's  instinct,  she  had  early 
detected  the  fact  that  he  had  a  superior, 
stronger  nature  than  her  husband ;  as  a 


102  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

loyal  wife,  she  secretly  resented  the  occa- 
sional unconscious  exhibition  of  this  fact 
on  the  part  of  his  intimate  friend  in  their 
familiar  intercourse.  Added  to  this  slight 
jealousy,  there  was  a  certain  moral  antag- 
onism between  herself  and  the  captain 
which  none  but  themselves  knew.  They 
were  both  philosophers,  but  Mrs.  Tucker's 
serene  and  languid  optimism  would  not  tol- 
erate the  compassionate  and  kind-hearted 
pessimisms  of  the  lawyer.  "  Knowing  what 
Jack  Poindexter  does  of  human  nature," 
her  husband  had  once  said,  "  it 's  mighty 
fine  in  him  to  be  so  kind  and  forgiving. 
You  ought  to  like  Nhim  better,  Belle." 
"  And  qualify  myself  to  be  forgiven,"  said 
the  lady  pertly.  "  I  don't  .see  what  you  're 
driving  at,  Belle  ;  I  give  it  up,"  had  re- 
sponded the  puzzled  husband.  Mrs.  Tucker 
kissed  his  high  but  foolish  forehead  ten- 
derly, and  said,  "  I  'm  glad  you  don't  dear." 
Meanwhile  her  second  visitor  had,  like 
the  first,  employed  the  interval  in  a  critical 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  103 

survey  of  the  glories  of  the  new  furniture, 
but  with  apparently  more  compassion  than 
resentment  in  his  manner.  Once  only  had 
his  expression  changed.  Over  the  fire- 
place hung  a  large  photograph  of  Mr. 
Spencer  Tucker.  It  was  retouched,  refined, 
and  idealized  in  the  highest  style  of  that 
polite  and  diplomatic  art.  As  Captain 
Poindexter  looked  upon  the  fringed  hazel 
eyes,  the  drooping  raven  moustache,  the 
clustering  ringlets,  and  the  Byronic  full 
throat  and  turned-down  collar  of  his  friend, 
a  smile  of  exhausted  humorous  tolerance 
and  affectionate  impatience  curved  his  lips. 
"  Well,  you  are  a  fool,  are  n't  you  ?  "  he 
apostrophized  it  half  audibly. 

He  was  standing  before  the  picture  as 
she  entered.  Even  in  the  trying  conti- 
guity of  that  peerless  work  he  would  have 
been  called  a  fine-looking  man.  As  he  ad- 
vanced to  greet  her,  it  was  evident  that  his 
military  title  was  not  one  of  the  mere  fan- 
ciful sobriquets  of  the  locality.  In  his  erect 


104  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

figure  and  the  disciplined  composure  of 
limb  and  attitude  there  were  still  traces  of 
the  refined  academic  rigors  of  West  Point. 
The  pliant  adaptability  of  Western  civiliza- 
tion which  enabled  him,  three  years  before, 
to  leave  the  army  and  transfer  his  execu- 
tive ability  to  the  more  profitable  profession 
of  the  law,  had  loosed  sash  and  shoulder- 
strap,  but  had  not  entirely  removed  the  re- 
straint of  the  one,  or  the  bearing  of  the 
other. 

"  Spencer  is  in  Sacramento,"  began  Mrs. 
Tucker  in  languid  explanation,  after  the 
first  greetings  were  over. 

"  I  knew  he  was  not  here,"  replied  Cap- 
tain Poindexter  gently,  as  he  drew  the 
proffered  chair  towards  her,  "  but  this  is 
business  that  concerns  you  both."  He 
stopped  and  glanced  upwards  at  the  pic- 
ture. "  I  suppose  you  know  nothing  of  his 
business?  Of  course  not,"  he  added  reas- 
suringly, "  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  cer- 
tainly." He  said  this  so  kindly,  and  yet 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  105 

so  positively,  as  if  to  promptly  dispose  of 
that  question  before  going  further,  that 
she  assented  mechanically.  "  Well,  then, 
he  's  taken  some  big  risks  in  the  way  of 
business,  and  —  well,  things  have  gone  bad 
with  him,  you  know.  Very  bad  !  Really, 
they  couldn't  be  worse  !  Of  course  it  was 
dreadfully  rash  and  all  that,"  he  went  on,  as 
if  commenting  upon  the  amusing  wayward- 
ness of  a  child ;  "  but  the  result  is  the  usual 
smash-up  of  everything,  money,  credit,  and 
all !  "  He  laughed  and  added,  "  Yes,  he  's 
got  cut  off  —  mules  and  baggage  regularly 
routed  and  dispersed  !  I  'm  in  earnest." 
He  raised  his  eyebrows  and  frowned  slightly, 
as  if  to  deprecate  any  corresponding  hilar- 
ity on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Tucker,  or  any  at- 
tempt to  make  too  light  of  the  subject,  and 
then  rising,  placed  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  beamed  half-humorously  upon  her 
from  beneath  her  husband's  picture,  and 
repeated,  "  That 's  so." 

Mrs.  Tucker  instinctively  knew  that  he 


106  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

spoke  the  truth,  and  that  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  convey  it  in  any  other  than  his 
natural  manner  ;  but  between  the  shock  and 
the  singular  influence  of  that  manner  she 
could  at  first  only  say,  "You  don't  mean 
it ! "  fully  conscious  of  the  utter  inanity  of 
the  remark,  and  that  it  seemed  scarcely 
less  cold-blooded  than  his  own. 

Poindexter,  still  smiling,  nodded. 

She  arose  with  an  effort.  She  had  recov- 
ered from  the  first  shock,  and  pride  lent 
her  a  determined  calmness  that  more  than 
equaled  Poindexter's  easy  philosophy. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  At  sea,  and  I  hope  by  this  time  where 
he  cannot  be  found  or  followed." 

Was  her  momentary  glimpse  of  the  out- 
going ship  a  coincidence,  or  only  a  vision  ? 
She  was  confused  and  giddy,  but,  master- 
ing her  weakness,  she  managed  to  continue 
in  a  lower  voice,  — 

"  You  have  no  message  for  me  from  him  ? 
He  told  you  nothing  to  tell  me  ?  " 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  107 

"Nothing,  absolutely  nothing,"  replied 
Poindexter.  "  It  was  as  much  as  he  could 
do,  I  reckon,  to  get  fairly  away  before  the 
crash  came." 

"  Then  you  did  not  see  him  go  ?  " 

"Well,  no,"  said  Poindexter.  "I'd 
hardly  have  managed ,  things  in  this  way." 
He  checked  himself  and  added,  with  a  for- 
giving smile,  "  but  he  was  the  best  judge  of 
what  he  needed,  of  course." 

"  I  suppose  I  will  hear  from  him,"  she 
said  quietly,  "as  soon  as  he  is  safe.  He 
must  have  had  enough  else  to  think  about, 
poor  fellow." 

She  said  this  so  naturally  and  quietly 
that  Poindexter  was  deceived.  He  had  no 
idea  that  the  collected  woman  before  him 
was  thinking  only  of  solitude  and  darkness, 
of  her  own  room,  and  madly  longing  to  be 
there.  He  said,  "  Yes,  I  dare  say,"  in  quite 
another  voice,  and  glanced  at  the  picture. 
But  as  she  remained  standing,  he  continued 
more  earnestly,  "  I  did  n't  come  here  to  tell 


108  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

you  what  you  might  read  in  the  newspa- 
pers to-morrow  morning,  and  what  every- 
body might  tell  you.  Before  that  time  I 
want  you  to  do  something  to  save  a  frag- 
ment of  your  property  from  the  ruin  ;  do  you 
understand  ?  I  want  you  to  make  a  rally, 
and  bring  off  something  in  good  order." 

"  For  him  ? "  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  with 
brightening  eyes. 

"  Well,  yes,  of  course  —  if  you  like  — 
but  as  if  for  yourself.  Do  you  know  the 
Rancho  de  los  Cuervos  ?  " 

« I  do." 

"  It 's  almost  the  only  bit  of  real  property 
your  husband  has  n't  sold,  mortgaged,  or 
pledged.  Why  it  was  exempt,  or  whether 
only  forgotten,  I  can't  say."  -  • 

"  I  '11  tell  you  why,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker, 
with  a  slight  return  of  color.  "  It  was  the 
first  land  we  eyer  bought,  and  Spencer  al- 
ways said  it  should  be  mine  and  he  would 
build  a  new  house  on  it." 

Captain  Poin^dexter  smiled  and  nodded  at 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  109 

the  picture.  "  Oh,  he  did  say  that,  did  he  ? 
Well,  that  '*  evidence.  But  you  see  he 
never  gave  you  the  deed,  and  by  sunrise 
to-morrow  his  creditors  will  attach  it  — 
unless  "  — 

"  Unless  "  —  repeated  Mrs.  Tucker,  with 
kindling  eyes. 

"  Unless,"  continued  Captain  Poindexter, 
"they  happen  to  find  you  in  possession." 

"1 11  go,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker. 

"  Of  course  you  will,"  returned  Poindex- 
ter, pleasantly,  "  Only,  as  it 's  a  big  con- 
tract to  take,  suppose  we  see  how  you  can 
fill  it.  It 's  forty  miles  to  Los  Cuervos,  and 
you  can't  trust  yourself  to  steamboat  or 
stage-coach.  The  steamboat  left  an  hour 
ago." 

"  If  I  had  only  known  this  then  !  "  ejacu- 
lated Mrs.  Tucker. 

"  /knew  it,  but  you  had  company  then," 
said  Poindexter,  with  ironical  gallantry, 
"  and  I  would  n't  disturb  you."  Without 
saying  how  he  knew  it,  he  continued,  "  In 


110  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

the  stage-coach  you  might  be  recognized. 
You  must  go  in  a  private  conveyance  and 
alone ;  even  I  cannot  go  with  you,  for  I 
must  go  on  before  and  meet  you  there.  Can 
you  drive  forty  miles  ?  " 

Mrs.  Tucker  lifted  up  her  abstracted 
pretty  lids.  "  I  once  drove  fifty  —  at  home," 
she  returned  simply. 

"  Good !  and  I  dare  say  you  did  it  then 
for  fun.  Do  it  now  for  something  real  and 
personal,  as  we  lawyers  say.  You  will  have 
relays  and  a  plan  of  the  road.  It 's  rough 
weather  for  a  pasear,  but  all  the  better  for 
that.  You'll  have  less  company  on  the 
road." 

"  How  soon  can  I  go  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  sooner  the  better.  I  *ve  arranged 
everything  for  you  already,"  he  continued 
with  a  laugh.  "  Come  now,  that 's  a  com- 
pliment to  you,  is  n't  it  ?  "  He  smiled  a 
moment  in  her  steadfast,  earnest  face,  and 
then  said,  more  gravely,  "  You  '11  do.  Now 
listen."  • 


A  SLUE   Git  ASS  PENELOPE.  Ill 

He  then  carefully  detailed  his  plan. 
There  was  so  little  of  excitement  or  mys- 
tery in  their  manner  that  the  servant,  who 
returned  to  light  the  gas,  never  knew  that 
the  ruin  and  bankruptcy  of  the  house  was 
being  told  before  her,  or  that  its  mistress 
was  planning  her  secret  flight. 

"  Good  afternoon  ;  I  will  see  you  to-mor- 
row then,"  said  Poindexter,  raising  his  eyes 
to  hers  as  the  servant  opened  the  door  for 
him. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  repeated  Mrs.  Tucker, 
quietly  answering  his  look.  "You  need 
not  light  the  gas  in  my  room,  Mary,"  she 
continued  in  the  same  tone  of  voice  as  the 
door  closed  upon  him  ;  "  I  shall  lie  down 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  I  may  run 
over  to  the  Robinsons  for  the  evening." 

She  regained  her  room  composedly.  The 
longing  desire  to  bury  her  head  in  her 
pillow  and  "  think  out "  her  position  had 
gone.  She  did  not  apostrophize  her  fate, 
she  did  not  weep ;  few  real  women  do  in 


112  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

the  access  of  calamity,  or  when  there  is 
anything  else  to  be  done.  She  felt  that 
she  knew  it  all;  she  believed  she  had 
sounded  the  profoundest  depths  of  the  dis- 
aster, and  seemed  already  so  old  in  her  ex- 
perience that  she  almost  fancied  she  had 
been  prepared  for  it.  Perhaps  she  did  not 
fully  appreciate  it ;  to  a  life  like  hers  it 
was  only  an  incident,  the  mere  turning  of  a 
page  of  the  illimitable  book  of  youth  ;  the 
breaking  up  of  what  she  now  felt  had  be- 
come a  monotony.  In  fact  she  was  not 
quite  sure  she  had  ever  been  satisfied  with 
their  present  success.  Had  it  brought  her 
all  she  expected  ?  She  wanted  to  say  this 
to  her  husband,  not  only  to  comfort  him, 
poor  fellow,  but  that  they  might  come  to  a 
better  understanding  of  life  in  the  future. 
She  was  not  perhaps  different  from  other 
loving  women  who,  believing  in  this  unat- 
tainable goal  of  matrimony,  have  sought  it 
in  the  various  episodes  of  fortune  or  reverses, 
in  the  bearing  of  children,  or  the  loss  of 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  113 

friends.  In  her  childless  experience  there 
was  no  other  life  that  had  taken  root  in  her 
circumstances  and  might  suffer  transplanta- 
tion ;  only  she  and  her  husband  could  lose 
or  profit  by  the  change.  The  "perfect" 
understanding  would  come  under  other 
conditions  than  these. 

She  would  have  gone  superstitiously  to 
the  window  to  gaze  in  the  direction  of  the 
vanished  ship,  but  another  instinct  re- 
strained her.  She  would  put  aside  all 
yearning  for  him  until  she  had  done  some- 
thing to  help  him,  and  earned  the  confi- 
dence he  seemed  to  have  withheld.  Per- 
haps it  was  pride  —  perhaps  she  never  really 
believed  his  exodus  was  distant  or  complete. 

With  a  full  knowledge  that  to-morrow 
the  various  ornaments  and  pretty  trifles 
around  her  would  be  in  the  hands  of  the 
law,  she  gathered  only  a  few  necessaries  for 
her  flight  and  some  familiar  personal  trin- 
kets. I  am  constrained  to  say  that  this  self- 
abnegation  was  more  fastidious  than  moral. 
8 


114  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

She  had  no  more  idea  of  the  ethics  of  bank- 
ruptcy than  any  other  charming  woman; 
she  simply  did  not  like  to  take  with  her 
any  contagious  memory  of  the  chapter  of 
the  life  just  closing.  She  glanced  around 
the  home  she  was  leaving  without  a  linger- 
ing regret ;  there  was  no  sentiment  of  tra- 
dition or  custom  that  might  be  destroyed ; 
her  roots  lay  too  near  the  surface  to  suffer 
from  dislocation ;  the  happiness  of  her  child- 
less union  had  depended  upon  no  domestic 
centre,  nor  was  its  flame  sacred  to  any  local 
hearthstone.  It  was  without  a  sigh  that, 
when  night  had  fully  fallen,  she  slipped  un- 
noticed down  the  staircase.  At  the  door  of 
the  drawing-room  she  paused  and  then  en- 
tered with  the  first  guilty  feeling  of  shame 
she  had  known  that  evening.  Looking 
stealthily  around  she  mounted  a  chair  be- 
fore her  husband's  picture,  kissed  the  irre- 
proachable moustache  hurriedly,  said,  "  You 
foolish  darling,  you  !  "  and  slipped  out 
again.  With  this  touching  indorsement  of 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  115 

the  views  of  a  rival  philosopher,  she  closed 
the  door  softly  and  left  her  home  forever. 


II. 

The  wind  and  rain  had  cleared  the  un- 
frequented suburb  of  any  observant  lounger, 
and  the  darkness,  lit  only  by  far-spaced, 
gusty  lamps,  hid  her  hastening  figure.  She 
had  barely  crossed  the  second  street  when 
she  heard  the  quick  clatter  of  hoofs  behind 
her  ;  a  buggy  drove  up  to  the  curbstone, 
and  Poindexter  leaped  out.  She  entered 
quickly,  but  for  a  moment  he  still  held  the 
reins  of  the  impatient  horse.  "  He  's  rather 
•fresh,"  he  said,  eying  her  keenly ;  "  are 
you  sure  you  can  manage  him  ?  " 

"  Give  me  the  reins,"  she  said  simply. 

He  placed  them  in  the  two  firm,  well- 
shaped  hands  that  reached  from  the  depths 
of  the  vehicle,  and  was  satisfied.  Yet  he 
lingered. 


116  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

"  It 's  rough  work  for  a  lone  woman,"  he 
said,  almost  curtly.  "  I  can't  go  with  you, 
but,  speak  frankly,  is  there  any  man  you 
know  whom  you  can  trust  well  enough  to 
take  ?  It 's  not  too  late  yet ;  think  a  mo- 
ment ! " 

He  paused  over  the  buttoning  of  the 
leather  apron  of  the  vehicle. 

"  No,  there  is  none,"  answered  the  voice 
from  the  interior ;  "  and  it 's  better  so.  Is 
all  ready  ?  " 

"  One  moment  more."  He  had  recovered 
his  half-bantering  manner.  "  You  have  a 
friend  and  countryman  already  with  you, 
do  you  know?  Your  horse  is  Blue  Grass. 
Good-night." 

With  these  words  ringing"  in  her  ears 
she  began  her  journey.  The  horse,  as  if 
eager  to  maintain  the  reputation  which  his 
native  district  had  given  his  race,  as  well 
as  the  race  of  the  pretty  woman  behind 
him,  leaped  impatiently  forward.  But 
pulled  together  by  the  fine  and  firm  fingers 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  117 

that  seemed  to  guide  rather  than  check  his 
exuberance,  he  presently  struck  into  the 
long,  swinging  pace  of  his  kind,  and  kept  it 
throughout  without  4i  break  "  or  accelera- 
tion. Over  the  paved  streets  the  light 
buggy  rattled,  and  the  slender  shafts  danced 
around  his  smooth  barrel,  but  when  they 
touched  the  level  high-road,  horse  and  vehi- 
cle slipped  forward  through  the  night,  a 
swift  and  noiseless  phantom.  Mrs.  Tucker 
could  see  his  graceful  back  dimly  rising 
and  falling  before  her  with  tireless  rhythm, 
and  could  feel  the  intelligent  pressure  of 
his  mouth  until  it  seemed  the  responsive 
grasp  of  a  powerful  but  kindly  hand.  The 
faint  glow  of  conquest  came  to  her  cold 
cheek ;  the  slight  stirrings  of  pride  moved 
her  preoccupied  heart.  A  soft  light  filled 
her  hazel  eyes.  A  desolate  woman,  bereft- 
of  husband  and  home,  and  flying  through 
storm  and  night,  she  knew  not  where,  she 
still  leaned  forward  towards  her  horse. 
"  Was  he  Blue  Grass,  then,  dear  old  boy  ?  " 


118  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

she  gently  cooed  at  him  in  the  darkness. 
He  evidently  was,  and  responded  by  blow- 
ing her  an  ostentatious  equine  kiss.  "  And 
he  would  be  good  to  his  own  forsaken 
Belle,"  she  murmured  caressingly,  "  and 
would  n't  let  any  one  harm  her  ? "  But 
here,  overcome  by  the  lazy  witchery  of  her 
voice,  he  shook  his  head  so  violently  that 
Mrs.  Tucker,  after  the  fashion  of  her  sex, 
had  the  double  satisfaction  of  demurely  re- 
straining the  passion  she  had  evoked. 

To  avoid  the  more  traveled  thoroughfare, 
while  the  evening  was  still  early,  it  had 
been  arranged  that  she  should  at  first  take 
a  less  direct  but  less  frequented  road.  This 
was  a  famous  pleasure-drive  from  San  Fran- 
cisco, a  graveled  and  sanded  stretch  of 
eight  miles  to  the  sea  and  an  ultimate 
"  cocktail,"  in  a  "  stately  pleasure-dome  de- 
creed "  among  the  surf  and  rocks  of  the 
Pacific  shore.  It  was  deserted  now,  and 
left  to  the  unobstructed  sweep  of  the  wind 
and  rain.  -  Mrs.  Tucker  would  not  have 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  119 

chosen  this  road.  With  the  instinctive 
jealousy  of  a  bucolic  inland  race  born  by 
great  rivers,  she  did  not  like  the  sea ;  and 
again  the  dim  and  dreary  waste  tended  to 
recall  the  vision  connected  with  her  hus- 
band's flight,  upon  which  she  had  resolutely 
shut  her  eyes.  But  when  she  had  reached 
it  the  road  suddenly  turned,  following  the 
trend  of  the  beach,  and  she  was  exposed 
to  the  full  power  of  its  dread  fascinations. 
The  combined  roar  of  sea  and  shore  was  in 
her  ears ;  as  the  direct  force  of  the  gale 
had  compelled  her  to  furl  the  protecting 
hood  of  the  buggy  to  keep  the  light  vehicle 
from  oversetting  or  drifting  to  leeward,  she 
could  no  longer  shut  oat  the  heaving  chaos 
on  the  right  from  which  the  pallid  ghosts 
of  dead  and  dying  breakers  dimly  rose  and 
sank  as  if  in  awful  salutation.  At  times 
through  the  darkness  a  white  sheet  ap- 
peared spread  before  the  path  and  beneath 
the  wheels  of  the  buggy,  which,  when  with- 
drawn with  a  reluctant  hiss,  seemed  striv- 


120  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

ing  to  drag  the  exhausted  beach  seaward 
with  it.  But  the  blind  terror  of  her  horse, 
who  swerved  at  every  sweep  of  the  surge, 
shamed  her  own  half -superstitious  fears, 
and  with  the  effort  to  control  his  alarm  she 
regained  her  own  self-possession,  albeit 
with  eyelashes  wet  not  altogether  with  the 
salt  spray  from  the  sea.  This  was  followed 
by  a  reaction,  perhaps  stimulated  by  her 
victory  over  the  beaten  animal,  when  for  a 
time,  she  knew  not  how  long,  she  felt  only 
a  mad  sense  of  freedom  and  power,  oblivi- 
ous of  even  her  sorrows,  her  lost  home  and 
husband,  and  with  intense  feminine  con- 
sciousness she  longed  to  be  a  man.  She 
was  scarcely  aware  that  the  track  turned 
again  inland  until  the  beaf  of  the  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  firm  ground  and  an  accelera- 
tion of  speed  showed  her  she  had  left  the 
beach  and  the  mysterious  sea  behind  her, 
and  she  remembered  that  she  was  near  the 
end  of  the  first  stage  of  her  journey.  Half 
an  hour  later  the  twinkling  lights  of  the 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  121 

roadside   inn   where    she   was    to   change 
horses  rose  out  of  the  darkness. 

Happily  for  her,  the  ostler  considered  the 
horse,  who  had  a  local  reputation,  of  more 
importance  than  the  unknown  muffled  fig- 
ure in  the  shadow  of  the  unfurled  hood, 
and  confined  his  attention  to  the  animal. 
After  a  careful  examination  of  his  feet  and 
a  few  comments  addressed  solely  to  the  su- 
perior creation,  he  led  him  aw&y.  Mrs. 
Tucker  would  have  liked  to  part  more  af- 
fectionately from  her  four  -  footed  compa- 
triot, and  felt  a  sudden  sense  of  loneliness 
at  the  loss  of  her  new  friend,  but  a  recol- 
lection of  certain  cautions  of  Captain  Pom- 
dexter's  kept  her  mute.  Nevertheless,  the 
ostler's  ostentatious  adjuration  of  "  Now 
then,  are  n't  you  going  to  bring  out  that 
mustang  for  the  Senora?  "  puzzled  her.  It 
was  not  until  the  fresh  horse  was  put  to, 
and  she  had  flung  a  piece  of  gold  into  the 
attendant's  hand,  that  the  "  G-racias  "  of 
his  unmistakable  Saxon  speech  revealed  to 


122  A  BLUE   GJtASS  PENELOPE. 

her  the  reason  of  the  lawyer's  caution. 
Poindexter  had  evidently  represented  her 
to  these  people  as  a  native  Californian  who 
did  not  speak  English.  In  her  inconsis- 
tency her  blood  took  fire  at  this  first  sug- 
gestion of  deceit,  and  burned  in  her  face. 
Why  should  he  try  to  pass  her  off  as  any- 
body else  ?  Why  should  she  not  use  her 
own,  her  husband's  name  ?  She  stopped 
and  bit  hel*  lip. 

It  was  but  the  beginning  of  an  uneasy 
train  of  thought.  She  suddenly  found 
herself  thinking  of  her  visitor,  Calhoun 
Weaver,  and  not  pleasantly.  He  would 
hear  of  their  ruin  to-morrow,  perhaps  of  her 
own  flight.  He  would  remember  his  visit, 
and  what  would  he  think  of  "her  deceitful 
frivolity  ?  Would  he  believe  that  she  was 
then  ignorant  of  the  failure  ?  It  was  her 
first  sense  of  any  accountability  to  others 
than  herself,  but  even  then  it  was  rather 
owing  to  an  uneasy  consciousness  of  what 
her  husband  must  feel  if  he  were  subjected 


A  SLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  123 

to  the  criticisms  of  men  like  Calhoun.  She 
wondered  if  others  knew  that  he  had  kept 
her  in  ignorance  of  his  flight.  Did  Poin- 
dexter  know  it,  or  had  he  only  entrapped 
her  into  the  admission  ?  Why  had  she 
not  been  clever  enough  to  make  him  think 
that  she  knew  it  already  ?  For  the  mo- 
ment she  hated  Poindexter  for  sharing  that 
secret.  Yet  this  was  again  followed  by  a 
new  impatience  of  her  husband's  want  of 
insight  into  her  ability  to  help  him.  Of 
course  the  poor  fellow  could  not  bear  to 
worry  her,  could  not  bear  to  face  such  men 
as  Calhoun,  or  even  Poindexter  (she  added 
exult ingly  to  herself),  but  he  might  have 
sent'  her  a  line  as  he  fled,  only  to  prepare 
her  to  meet  and  combat  the  shame  alone. 
It  did  not  occur  to  her  unsophisticated 
singleness  of  nature  that  she  was  accepting 
as  an  error  of  feeling  what  the  world  would 
call  cowardly  selfishness. 

At  midnight  the  storm  lulled  and  a  few 
stars   trembled   through    the   rent   clouds. 


124  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

Her  eyes  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
darkness,  and  her  country  instincts,  a  little 
overlaid  by  the  urban  experiences  of  the 
last  few  years,  came  again  to  the  surface. 
She  felt  the  fresh,  cool  radiation  from  out- 
lying, upturned  fields,  the  faint,  sad  odors 
from  dim  stretches  of  pricking  grain  and 
quickening  leaf,  and  wondered  if  at  Los 
Cuervos  it  might  be  possible  to  reproduce 
the  peculiar  verdure  of  her  native  district. 
She  beguiled  her  fancy  by  an  ambitious 
plan  of  retrieving  their  fortunes  by  farm- 
ing ;  her  comfortable  tastes  had  lately  re- 
belled against  the  homeless  mechanical  cul- 
tivation of  these  desolate  but  teeming  Cal- 
ifornian  acres,  and  for  a  moment  indulged 
in  a  vision  of  a  vine-clad  cott'age  home  that 
in  any  other  woman  would  have  been  senti- 
mental. Her  cramped  limbs  aching,  she 
took  advantage  of  the  security  of  the  dark- 
ness and  the  familiar  contiguity  of  the  fields 
to  get  down  from  the  vehicle,  gather  her 
skirts  together,  and  run  at  the  head  of  the 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  125 

mustang,  until  her  chill  blood  was  thawed, 
night  drawing  a  modest  veil  over  this 
charming  revelation  of  the  nymph  and  wo- 
man. But  the  sudden  shadow  of  a  coyote 
checked  the  scouring  feet  of  this  swift  Ca- 
milla, and  sent  her  back  precipitately  to  the 
buggy.  Nevertheless,  she  was  refreshed 
and  able  to  pursue  her  journey,  until  the 
cold  gray  of  early  morning  found  her  at 
the  end  of  her  second  stage. 

Her  route  was  changed  again  from  the 
main  highway,  rendered  dangerous  by  the 
approach  of  day  and  the  contiguity  of  the 
neighboring  rancheros.  The  road  was 
rough  and  hilly,  her  new  horse  and  vehicle 
in  keeping  with  the  rudeness  of  the  route 
—  by  far  the  most  difficult  of  her  whole 
journey.  The  rare  wagon  tracks  that  in- 
dicated her  road  were  often  scarcely  dis- 
cernible ;  at  times  they  led  her  through 
openings  in  the  half-cleared  woods,  skirted 
suspicious  morasses,  painfully  climbed  the 
smooth,  dome-like  hills,  or  wound  along 


126  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

perilous  slopes  at  a  dangerous  angle.  Twice 
she  had  to  alight  and  cling  to  the  sliding 
wheels  on  one  of  those  treacherous  inclines, 
or  drag  them  from  impending  ruts  or  im- 
movable mire.  In  the  growing  light  she 
could  distinguish  the  distant,  low-lying 
marshes  eaten  by  encroaching  sloughs  and 
insidious  channels,  and  beyond  them  the 
faint  gray  waste  of  the  Lower  Bay.  A 
darker  peninsula  in  the  marsh  she  knew  to 
be  the  extreme  boundary  of  her  future 
home :  the  Rancho  de  los  Cuervos.  In  an- 
other hour  she  began  to  descend  to  the 
plain,  and  once  more  to  approach  the  main 
road,  which  now  ran  nearly  parallel  with 
her  track.  She  scanned  it  cautiously  for 
any  early  traveler ;  it  stretched  north  and 
south  in  apparent  unending  solitude.  She 
struck  into  it  boldly,  and  urged  her  horse 
to  the  top  of  his  speed,  until  she  reached 
the  cross  road  that  led  to  the  rancho.  But 
here  she  paused  and  allowed  the  reins  to 
drop  idly  on  the  mustang's  back.  A  sin- 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  127 

gular  and  unaccountable  irresolution  seized 
her.  The  difficulties  of  her  journey  were 
over ;  the  rancho  lay  scarcely  two  miles 
away  ;  she  had  achieved  the  -most  impor- 
tant part  of  her  task  in  the  appointed  time, 
but  she  hesitated.  What  had  she  come 
for  ?  She  tried  to  recall  Poindexter's 
words,  even  her  own  enthusiasm,  but  in 
vain.  She  was  going  to  take  possession  of 
her  husband's  property,  she  knew,  that 
was  all.  But  the  means  she  had  taken 
seemed  now  so  exaggerated  and  mysterious 
for  that  simple  end  that  she  began  to  dread 
an  impending  something,  or  some  vague 
danger  she  had  not  considered,  that  she 
was  rushing  blindly  to  meet.  Full  of  this 
strange  feeling  she  almost  mechanically 
stopped  her  horse  as  she  entered  the  cross 
road. 

From  this  momentary  hesitation  a  singu- 
lar sound  aroused  her.  It  seemed  at  first 
like  the  swift  hurrying  by  of  some  viewless 
courier  of  the  air,  the  vague  alarm  of  some 


128  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

invisible  flying  herald,  or  like  the  inarticu- 
late cry  that  precedes  a  storm.  It  seemed 
to  rise  and  fall  around  her  as  if  with  some 
changing  urgency  of  purpose.  Raising  her 
eyes  she  suddenly  recognized  the  two  far- 
stretching  lines  of  telegraph  wire  above  her 
head,  and  knew  the  seolian  cry  of  the  morn- 
ing wind  along  its  vibrating  chords.  But 
it  brought  another  and  more  practical  fear 
to  her  active  brain.  Perhaps  even  now  the 
telegraph  might  be  anticipating  her  !  Had 
Poindexter  thought  of  that  ?  She  hesitated 
no  longer,  but  laying  the  whip  on  the  back 
of  her  jaded  mustang  again  hurried  for- 
ward. 

As  the  level  horizon  grew  more  distinct, 
her  attention  was  attracted,  by  the  white 
sail, of  a  small  boat  lazily  threading  the  sin- 
uous channel  of  the  slough.  It  might  be 
Poindexter  arriving  by  the  more  direct 
route  from  the  steamboat  that  occasionally 
laid  off  the  ancient  embarcadero  of  the  Los 
Cuervos  Rancho.  But  even  while  watch- 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  129 

ing  it  her  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of 
galloping  hoofs  behind  her.  She  turned 
quickly  and  saw  she  was  followed  by  a 
horseman.  But  her  momentary  alarm  was 
succeeded  by  a  feeling  of  relief  as  she  rec- 
ognized the  erect  figure  and  square  shoul- 
ders of  Poindexter.  Yet  she  could  not  help 
thinking  that  he  looked  more  like  a  mili- 
tant scout,  and  less  like  a  cautious  legal 
adviser,  than  ever. 

With  unaffected  womanliness  she  rear- 
ranged her  slightly  disordered  hair  as  he 
drew  up  beside  her.  "  I  thought  you  were 
in  yonder  boat,"  she  said. 

"  Not  I,"  he  laughed  ;  "  I  distanced  you 
by  the  high  road  two  hours,  and  have  been 
reconnoitring,  until  I  saw  you  hesitate  at 
the  cross  roads.1' 

"  But  who  is  in  the  boat  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Tucker,  partly  to  hide  her  embarrassment. 

"  Only  some  early  Chinese  market  gar- 
dener, I  dare  say.  But  you  are  safe  now. 
You  are  on  your  own  land.  You  passed 

9 


130  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

the  boundary  monument  of  the  rancho  five 
minutes  ago.  Look !  All  you  see  before 
you  is  yours  from  the  embarcadero  to  yon- 
der Coast  Range." 

The  tone  of  half-raillery  did  not,  how- 
ever, cheer  Mrs.  Tucker.  She  shuddered 
slightly  and  cast  her  eyes  over  the  monot- 
onous sea  of  tule  and  meadow. 

"  It  does  n't  look  pretty,  perhaps,"  con- 
tinued Poindexter,  "  but  it 's  the  richest 
land  in  the  State,  and  the  embarcadero  will 
some  day  be  a  town.  I  suppose  you  '11  call 
it  Blue  Grassville.  But  you  seem  tired !  " 
he  said,  suddenly  dropping  his  voice  to  a 
tone  of  half-humorous  sympathy. 

Mrs.  Tucker  managed  to  get  rid  of  an 
impending  tear  under  the  pfe'tense  of  clear- 
ing her  eyes.  "  Are  we  nearly  there  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Nearly.  You  know,"  he  added  with  the 
same  half -mischievous,  half -sympathizing 
gayety,  "it's  not  exactly  a  palace  you're 
coming  to.  Hardly.  It 's  the  old  casa 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  131 

that  has  been  deserted  for  years,  but  I 
thought  it  better  you  should  go  into  posses- 
sion there  than  take  up  your  abode  at  the 
shanty  where  your  husband's  farm-hands 
are.  No  one  will  know  when  you  take 
possession  of  the  casa,  while  the  very  hour 
of  your  arrival  at  the  shanty  would  be 
known ;  and  if  they  should  make  any 
trouble  "  — 

"  If  they  should  make  any  trouble  ?  "  re- 
peated Mrs.  Tucker,  lifting  her  frank,  in- 
quiring eyes  to  Poindexter. 

His  horse  suddenly  rearing  from  an  ap- 
parently accidental  prick  of  the  spur,  it 
was  a  minute  or  two  before  he  was  able  to 
explain.  "  I  mean  if  this  ever  comes  up  as 
a  matter  of  evidence,  you  know.  But  here 
we  are  ! " 

What  had  seemed  to  be  an  overgrown 
mound  rising  like  an  island  out  of  the  dead 
level  of  the  grassy  sea  now  resolved  itself 
into  a  collection  of  adobe  walls,  eaten  and 
incrusted  with  shrubs  and  vines,  that  bore 


132  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

some  resemblance  to  the  usual  uninhabited- 
looking  exterior  of  a  Spanish-American 
dwelling.  Apertures  that  might  have  been 
lance-shaped  windows  or  only  cracks  and 
fissures  in  the  walls  were  choked  up  with 
weeds  and  grass,  and  gave  no  passing 
glimpse  of  the  interior.  Entering  a  ruin- 
ous corral  they  came  to  a  second  entrance, 
which  proved  to  be  the  patio  or  courtyard. 
The  deserted  wooden  corridor,  with  beams, 
rafters,  and  floors  whitened  by  the  eternal 
sun  and  wind,  contained  a  few  withered 
leaves,  dryly  rotting  skins,  and  thongs  of 
leather,  as  if  undisturbed  by  human  care. 
But  among  these  scattered  debris  of  former 
life  and  habitation  there  was  no  noisome 
or  unclean  suggestion  of  decay.  A  faint, 
spiced  odor  of  desiccation  filled  the  bare 
walls.  There  was  no  slime  on  stone  or 
sun-dried  brick.  In  place  of  fungus  or  dis- 
colored moisture  the  dust  of  efflorescence 
whitened  in  the  obscured  corners.  The 
elements  had  picked  clean  the  bones  of  the 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  133 

crumbling  tenement  ere  they  should  finally 
absorb  it. 

A  withered  old  peon  woman,  who  in 
dress,  complexion,  and  fibrous  hair  might 
have  been  an  animated  fragment  of  the 
debris,  rustled  out  of  a  low  vaulted  passage 
and  welcomed  them  with  a  feeble  crepita- 
tion. Following  her  into  the  dim  interior 
Mrs.  Tucker  was  surprised  to  find  some 
slight  attempt  at  comfort  and  even  adorn- 
ment in  the  two  or  three  habitable  apart- 
ments. They  were  scrupulously  clean  and 
dry,  two.  qualities  which  in  her  feminine 
eyes  atoned  for  poverty  of  material. 

"  I  could  not  send  anything  from  San 
Bruno,  the  nearest  village,  without  attract- 
ing attention,"  explained  Poindexter ;  "  but 
if  you  can  manage  to  picnic  here  for  a  day 
longer,  I  '11  get  one  of  our  Chinese  friends 
here,"  he  pointed  to  the  slough,  "  to  bring 
over,  for  his  return  cargo  from  across  the 
bay,  any  necessaries  you  may  want.  There 
is  no  danger  of  his  betraying  you,"  he 


134  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

added,  with  an  ironical  sinile  ;  "  Chinamen 
and  Indians  are,  by  an  ingenious  provision 
of  the  statute  of  California,  incapable  of 
giving  evidence  against  a  white  person. 
You  can  trust  your  handmaiden  perfectly 
—  even  if  she  can't  trust  you.  That  is 
your  sacred  privilege  under  the  constitu- 
tion. And  now,  as  I  expect  to  catch  the 
up  boat  ten  miles  from  hence,  I  must  say 
'  good-by '  until  to-morrow  night.  I  hope 
to  bring  you  then  some  more  definite  plans 
for  the  future.  The  worst  is  over."  He 
held  her  hand  for  a  moment,  and  with  a 
graver  voice  continued,  "  You  have  done  it 
very  well  —  do  you  know  —  very  well !  " 

In  the  slight  embarrassment  produced  by 
his  sudden  change  of  manner  she  felt  that 
her  thanks  seemed  awkward  and  restrained. 
"Don't  thank  me,"  he  laughed,  with  a 
prompt  return  of  his  former  levity,  "  that 's 
my  trade.  I  only  advised.  You  have 
saved  yourself  like  a  plucky  woman  — 
shall  I  say  like  Blue  Grass  ?  Good-by ! " 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  135 

He  mounted  his  horse,  but,  as  if  struck 
by  an  after-thought,  wheeled  and  drew  up 
by  her  side  again.  "  If  I  were  you  I 
would  n't  see  many  strangers  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  listen  to  as  little  news  as  a  woman 
possibly  can."  He  laughed  again,  waved 
her  a  half-gallant,  half-military  salute,  and 
was  gone.  The  question  she  had  been  try- 
ing to  frame,  regarding  the  probability  of 
communication  with  her  husband,  remained 
unasked.  At  least  she  had  saved  her 
pride  before  him. 

Addressing  herself  to  the  care  of  her 
narrow  household,  she  mechanically  put 
away  the  few  things  she  had  brought  with 
her,  and  began  to  readjust  the  scant  furni- 
ture. She  was  a  little  discomposed  at  first 
at  the  absence  of  bolts,  locks,  and  even  win- 
dow-fastenings until  assured,  by  Concha's 
evident  inability  to  comprehend  her  con- 
cern, that  they  were  quite  unknown  at  Los 
Cuervos.  Her  slight  knowledge  of  Spanish 
was  barely  sufficient  to  make  her  wants 


136  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

known,  so  that  the  relief  of  conversation 
with  her  only  companion  was  debarred  her, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  content  herself 
with  the  sapless,  crackling  smiles  and  with- 
ered genuflexions  that  the  old  woman 
dropped  like  dead  leaves  in  her  path.  It 
was  staring  noon  when,  the  house  singing 
like  an  empty  shell  in  the  monotonous 
wind,  she  felt  she  could  stand  the  solitude 
no  longer,  and,  crossing  the  glaring  patio 
and  whistling  corridor,  made  her  way  to 
the  open  gateway. 

But  the  view  without  seemed  to  intensify 
her  desolation.  The  broad  expanse  of  the 
shadowless  plain  reached  apparently  to  the 
Coast  Range,  trackless  and  unbroken  save 
by  one  or  two  clusters  of  -  dwarfed  oaks, 
which  at  that  distance  were  but  mossy  ex- 
crescences on  the  surface,  barely  raised 
above  the  dead  level.  On  the  other  side 
the  marsh  took  up  the  monotony  and  car- 
ried it,  scarcely  interrupted  by  undefined 
water-courses,  to  the  faintly  marked  out 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  137 

horizon  line  of  the  remote  bay.  Scattered 
and  apparently  motionless  black  spots  on 
the  meadows  that  gave  a  dreary  significance 
to  the  title  of  "  the  Crows  "  which  the  ran- 
cho  bore,  and  sudden  gray  clouds  of  sand- 
pipers on  the  marshes,  that  rose  and  van- 
ished down  the  wind,  were  the  only  signs 
of  life.  Even  the  white  sail  of  the  early 
morning  was  gone. 

She  stood  there  until  the  aching  of  her 
straining  eyes  and  the  stiffening  of  her 
limbs  in  the  cold  wind  compelled  her  to 
seek  the  sheltered  warmth  of  the  courtyard. 
Here  she  endeavored  to  make  friends  with 
a  bright-eyed  lizard,  who  was  sunning  him- 
self in  the  corridor  ;  a  graceful  little  crea- 
ture in  blue  and  gold,  from  whom  she  felt 
at  other  times  she  might  have  fled,  but 
whose  beauty  and  harmlessness  solitude  had 
made  known  to  her.  With  misplaced  kind- 
ness she  tempted  it  with  bread-crumbs,  with 
no  other  effect  than  to  stiffen  it  into  stony 
astonishment.  She  wondered  if  she  should 


138  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

become  like  the  prisoners  she  had  read  of 
in  books,  who  poured  out  their  solitary  af- 
fections on  noisome  creatures,  and  she  re- 
gretted even  the  mustang,  which  with  the 
buggy  had  disappeared  under  the  charge 
of  some  unknown  retainer  on  her  arrival. 
Was  she  not  a  prisoner  ?  The  shutterless 
windows,  yawning  doors,  and  open  gate 
refuted  the  suggestion,  but  the  encompass- 
ing solitude  and  trackless  waste  still  held 
her  captive.  Poindexter  had  told  her  it 
was  four  miles  to  the  shanty ;  she  might 
walk  there.  Why  had  she  given  her  word 
that  she  would  remain  at  the  rancho  until 
he  returned  ? 

The  long  day  crept  monotonously  away, 
and  she  welcomed  the  night  wjiich  shut  out 
the  dreary  prospect.  But  it  brought  no 
cessation  of  the  harassing  wind  without,  nor 
surcease  of  the  nervous  irritation  its  perpet- 
ual and  even  activity  wrought  upon  her. 
It  haunted  her  pillow  even  in  her  exhausted 
sleep,  and  seemed  to  impatiently  beckon 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  139 

her  to  rise  and  follow  it.  It  brought  her 
feverish  dreams  of  her  husband,  footsore 
and  weary,  staggering  forward  under  its 
pitiless  lash  and  clamorous  outcry  ;  she 
would  have  gone  to  his  assistance,  but  when  . 
she  reached  his  side  and  held  out  her  arms 
to  him  it  hurried  her  past  with  merciless 
power,  and,  bearing  her  away,  left  him 
hopelessly  behind.  It  was  broad  day  when 
she  awoke.  The  usual  night  showers  of  the 
waning  rainy  season  had  left  no  trace  in 
sky  or  meadow ;  the  fervid  morning  sun 
had  already  dried  the  patio  ;  only  the  rest- 
less, harrying  wind  remained. 

Mrs.  Tucker  arose  with  a  resolve.  She 
had  learned  from  Concha  on  the  previous 
evening  that  a  part  of  the  shanty  was  used 
as  a  tienda  or  shop  for  the  laborers  and 
rancheros.  Under  the  necessity  of  purchas- 
ing some  articles,  she  would  go  there  and 
for  a  moment  mingle  with  those  people, 
who  would  not  recognize  her.  Even  if  they 
did,  her  instinct  told  her  it  would  be  less 


140  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

to  be  feared  than  the  hopeless  uncertainty 
of  another  day.  As  she  left  the  house  the 
wind  seemed  to  seize  her  as  in  her  dream, 
and  hurry  her  along  with  it,  until  in  a  few 
moments  the  walls  of  the  low  casa  sank  into 
the  earth  again  and  she  was  alone,  but  for 
the  breeze  on  the  solitary  plain.  The  level 
distance  glittered  in  the  sharp  light,  a  few 
crows  with  slant  wings  dipped  and  ran 
down  the  wind  before  her,  and  a  passing 
gleam  on  the  marsh  was  explained  by  the 
far-off  cry  of  a  curlew. 

She  had  walked  for  an  hour,  upheld  by 
the  stimulus  of  light  and  morning  air,  when 
the  cluster  of  scrub  oaks,  which  was  her 
destination,  opened  enough  to  show  two 
rambling  sheds,  before  one  of -which  was  a 
wooden  platform  containing  a  few  barrels 
and  bones.  As  she  approached  nearer,  she 
could  see  that  one  or  two  horses  were  teth- 
ered under  the  trees,  that  their  riders 
were  lounging  by  a  horse-trough,  and  that 
over  an  open  door  the  word  Tien  da  was 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  141 

rudely  painted  on  a  board,  and  as  rudely 
illustrated  by  the  wares  displayed  at  door 
and  window.  Accustomed  as  she  was  to 
the  poverty  of  frontier  architecture,  even 
the  crumbling  walls  of  the  old  hacienda  she 
had  just  left  seemed  picturesque  to  the  rigid 
angles  of  the  thin,  blank,  un  painted  shell 
before  her.  One  of  the  loungers,  who  was 
reading  a  newspaper  aloud  as  she  advanced, 
put  it  aside  and  stared  at  her ;  there  was 
an  evident  commotion  in  the  shop  as  she 
stepped  upon  the  platform,  and  when  she 
entered,  with  breathless  lips  and  beating 
heart,  she  found  herself  the  object  of  a 
dozen  curious  eyes.  Her  quick  pride  re- 
sented the  scrutiny  and  recalled  her  cour- 
age, and  it  was  with  a  slight  coldness  in  her 
usual  lazy  indifference  that  she  leaned  over 
the  counter  and  asked  for  the  articles  she 
wanted. 

The  request  was  followed  by  a  dead  si- 
lence. Mrs.  Tucker  repeated  it  with  some 
hauteur.  * 


142  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

"  I  reckon  you  don't  seem  to  know  this 
store  is  in  the  hands  of  the  sheriff,"  said  one 
of  the  loungers. 

Mrs.  Tucker  was  not  aware  of  it. 
i  "  Well,  I  don't  know  any  one  who  's  a 
better  right  to  know  than  Spence  Tucker's 
wife,"  said  another  with  a  coarse  laugh. 
The  laugh  was  echoed  by  the  others.  Mrs. 
Tucker  saw  the  pit  into  which  she  had  de- 
liberately walked,  but  did  not  flinch. 

"Is  there  anyone  to  serve  here?"  she 
asked,  turning  her  clear  eyes  full  upon  the 
bystanders. 

"  You  'd  better  ask  the  sheriff.  He  was 
the  last  one  to  sarve  here.  He  sarved  an 
attachment,"  replied  the  inevitable  humor- 
ist of  all  Californian  assemblages. 

"  Is  he  here  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Tucker,  disre- 
garding the  renewed  laughter  which  fol- 
lowed this  subtle  witticism. 

The  loungers  at  the  door  made  way  for 
one  of  their  party,  who  was  half  dragged, 
half  pushed  into  the  shop.  "  Here  he  is," 


A  SLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  143 

said  half  a  dozen  eager  voices,  in  the  fond 
belief  that  his  presence  might  impart  addi- 
tional humor  to  the  situation.  He  cast  a 
deprecating  glance  at  Mrs.  Tucker  and  said, 
"  It 's  so,  madam !  This  yer  place  is  at- 
tached ;  but  if  there 's  anything  you  're 
wanting,  why  I  reckon,  boys,"  —  he  turned 
half  appealingly  to  the  crowd,  —  "we  could 
oblige  a  lady."  There  was  a  vague  sound 
of  angry  opposition  and  remonstrance  from 
the  back  door  of  the  shop,  but  the  majority, 
partly  overcome  by  Mrs.  Tucker's  beauty, 
assented.  "  Only/'  continued  the  officer 
explanatorily,  "  ez  these  yer  goods  are  in  the 
hands  of  the  creditors,  they  ought  to  be 
represented  by  an  equivalent  in  money.  If 
you  're  expecting  they  should  be  charged  '*  — r 

"But  I  wish  to  pay  for  them,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Tucker,  with  a  slight  flush  of 
indignation  ;  "  I  have  the  money." 

"  Oh,  I  bet  you  have  !  "  screamed  a  voice, 
as,  overturning  all  opposition,  the  malcon- 
tent at  the  back  door,  in  the  shape  of  a** 


144  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

infuriated  woman,  forced  her  way  into  the 
shop.  "  I  '11  bet  you  have  the  money  ! 
Look  at  her,  boys !  Look  at  the  wife  of 
the  thief,  with  the  stolen  money  in  dia- 
monds in  her  ears  and  rings  on  her  fingers. 
She  's  got  money  if  we  've  none.  She  can 
pay  for  what  she  fancies,  if  we  have  n't 
a  cent  to  redeem  the  bed  that 's  stolen  from 
under  us.  Oh  yes,  buy  it  all,  Mrs.  Spencer 
Tucker !  buy  the  whole  shop,  Mrs.  Spencer 
Tucker,  do  you  hear  ?  And  if  you  ain't 
satisfied  then,  buy  my  clothes,  my  wedding 
ring,  the  only  things  your  husband  has  n't 
stolen." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Tucker  coldly,  turning  towards  the  door. 
But  with  a*  flying  leap  across  the  counter 
her  relentless  adversary  stood  between  her 
and  retreat. 

"  You  don't  understand  !  Perhaps  you 
don't  understand  that  your  husband  not 
only  stole  the  hard  labor  of  these  men,  but 
even  the  little  money  they  brought  here 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  145 

and  trusted  to  his  thieving  hands.  Perhaps 
you  don't  know  that  he  stole  my  husband's 
hard  earnings,  mortgaged  these  very  goods 
you  want  to  buy,  and  that  he  is  to-day  a 
convicted  thief,  a  forger,  and  a  runaway 
coward.  Perhaps,  if  you  can't  understand 
me,  you  can  read  the  newspaper.  Look !  " 
She  exultingly  opened  the  paper  the  sheriff 
had  been  reading  aloud,  and  pointed  to  the 
displayed  headlines.  "  Look !  there  are  the 
very  words,  '  Forgery,  Swindling,  Embez- 
zlement ! '  Do  you  see  ?  And  perhaps  you 
can't  understand  this.  Look  !  '  Shameful 
Flight.  Abandons  his  Wife.  Runs  off 
with  a  Notorious  '  "  — 

"  Easy,  old  gal,  easy  now.  D — n  it ! 
Will  you  dry  up?  I  say.  Stop!" 

It  was  too  late  !  The  sheriff  had  dashed 
the  paper  from  the  woman's  hand,  but  not 
until  Mrs.  Tucker  had  read  a  single  line,  a 
line  such  as  she  had  sometimes  turned  from 
with  weary  scorn  in  her  careless  perusal  of 
the  daily  shameful  chronicle  of  domestic  in- 

10 


146  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

felicity.  Then  she  had  coldly  wondered  if 
there  could  be  any  such  men  and  women ; 
and  now  !  The  crowd  fell  back  before  her ; 
even  the  virago  was  silenced  as  she  looked 
at  her  face.  The  humorist's  face  was  as 
white,  but  not  as  immobile,  as  he  gasped, 
"  Christ !  if  I  don't  believe  she  knew  nothin' 
of  it !  " 

For  a  moment  the  full  force  of  such  a 
supposition,  with  all  its  poignancy,  its  dra- 
matic intensity,  and  its  pathos,  possessed 
the  crowd.  In  the  momentary  clairvoy- 
ance of  enthusiasm  they  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  truth,  and  by  one  of  the  strange  re- 
actions of  human  passion  they  only  waited 
for  a  word  of  appeal  or  explanation  from 
her  lips  to  throw  themselves  at  her  feet. 
Had  she  simply  told  her  story  they  would 
have  believed  her ;  had  she  cried,  fainted, 
or  gone  into  hysterics,  they  would  have 
pitied  her.  She  did  neither.  Perhaps  she 
thought  of  neither,  or  indeed  of  anything 
that  was  then  before  her  eyes.  She  walked 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  147 

erect  to  the  door  and  turned  upon  the 
threshold.  "  I  mean  what  I  say,"  she  said 
calmly.  "  I  don't  understand  you.  But 
whatever  just  claims  you  have  upon  my 
husband  will  be  paid  by  me,  or  by  his  law- 
yer, Captain  Poiiidexter." 

She  had  lost  the  sympathy  but  not  the 
respect  of  her  hearers.  They  made  way 
for  her  with  sullen  deference  as  she  passed 
out  on  the  platform.  But  her  adversary, 
profiting  by  the  last  opportunity,  burst  into 
an  ironical  laugh. 

"  Captain  Poindexter,  is  it  ?  Well,  per- 
haps he  's  safe  to  pay  your  bill,  but  as  for 
your  husband's  "  — 

"  That 's  another  matter,"  interrupted  a 
familiar  voice  with  the  greatest  cheerful- 
ness ;  "  that 's  what  you  were  going  to  say, 
was  n't  it  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  Well,  Mrs.  Patter- 
son," continued  Poindexter,  stepping  from 
his  buggy,  "  you  never  spoke  a  truer  word 
in  your  life.  One  moment,  Mrs.  Tucker. 
Let  me  send  you  back  in  the  buggy.  Don't 


148  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

mind  me.  I  can  get  a  fresh  horse  of  the 
sheriff.  I  'm  quite  at  home  here.  I  say, 
Patterson,  step  a  few  paces  this  way,  will 
you?  A  little  further  from  your  wife, 
please.  That  '11  do.  You  Ve  got  a  claim 
of  five  thousand  dollars  against  the  prop- 
erty, have  n't  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  that  woman  just  driving  away  is 
your  one  solitary  chance  of  getting  a  cent 
of  it.  If  your  wife  insults  her  again,  that 
chance  is  gone.  And  if  you  do  "  — 

"Well?" 

"  As  sure  as  there  is  a  God  in  Israel  and 
a  Supreme  Court  of  the  State  of  California, 
I  '11  kill  you  in  your  tracks  !  .  .  .  Stay !  " 

Patterson  turned.  The  irrepressible  look 
of  humorous  tolerance  of  all  human  frailty 
had  suffused  Poindexter's  black  eyes  with 
mischievous  moisture.  "  If  you  think  it 
quite  safe  to  confide  to  your  wife  this  pros- 
pect of  her  improvement  by  widowhood, 
you  may ! " 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  149 


III. 

Mr.  Patterson  did  not  inform  his  wife  of 
the  lawyer's  personal  threat  to  himself. 
But  he  managed,  after  Poindexter  had  left, 
to  make  her  conscious  that  Mrs.  Tucker 
might  be  a  power  to  be  placated  and  feared. 
"  You  've  shot  off  your  mouth  at  her,"  he 
said  argumentatively,  "  and  whether  you  Ve 
hit  the  mark  or  not  you  've  had  your  say. 
Ef  you  think  it 's  worth  a  possible  five  thou- 
sand dollars  and  interest  to  keep  on,  heave 
ahead.  Ef  you  rather  have  the  chance  of 
getting  the  rest  in  cash,  you  '11  let  up  on 
her."  "You  don't  suppose,"  returned  Mrs. 
Patterson  contemptuously,  "  that  she 's  got 
anything  but  what  that  man  of  hers  — 
Poindexter  —  lets  her  have  ?  "  "  The  sher- 
iff says,"  retorted  Patterson  surlily,  "that 
she 's  notified  him  that  she  claims  the 
rancho  as  a  gift  from  her  husband  three 
years  ago,  and  she  's  in  possession  now,  and 


150  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

was  so  when  the  execution  was  out.  It 
don't  make  no  matter,"  he  added,  with 
gloomy  philosophy,  "  who  's  got  a  full  hand 
as  long  as  we  ain't  got  the  cards  to  chip 
in.  I  would  n't  'a'  minded  it,"  he  con- 
tinued meditatively,  "  ef  Spence  Tucker 
had  dropped  a  hint  to  me  afore  he  put 
out."  *'  And  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Patter- 
son angrily,  "  you  'd  have  put  out  too  ?  " 
"  I  reckon,"  said  Patterson  simply. 

Twice  or  thrice  during  the  evening  he 
referred,  more  or  less  directly,  to  this  lack 
of  confidence  shown  by  his  late  debtor  and 
employer,  and  seemed  to  feel  it  more  keenly 
than  the  loss  of  property.  He  confided  his 
sentiments  quite  openly  to  the  sheriff  in 
possession,  over  the  whiskey*  and  euchre 
with  which  these  gentlemen  avoided  the 
difficulties  of  their  delicate  relations.  He 
brooded  over  it  as  he  handed  the  keys  of 
the  shop  to  the  sheriff  when  they  parted 
for  the  night,  and  was  still  thinking  of  it 
when  the  house  was  closed,  everybody  gone 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  151 

to  bed,  and  he  was  fetching  a  fresh  jug  of 
water  from  the  well.  The  moon  was  at 
times  obscured  by  flying  clouds,  the  avant- 
couriers  of  the  regular  evening  shower. 
He  was  stooping  over  the  well,  when  he 
sprang  suddenly  to  his  feet  again.  "  Who 's 
there  ?  "  he  demanded  sharply. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  a  voice  so  low  and  faint 
it  might  have  been  a  whisper  of  the  wind 
in  the  palisades  of  the  corral.  But,  indis- 
tinct as  it  was,  it  was  the  voice  of  the  man 
he  was  thinking  of  as  far  away,  and  it 
sent  a  thrill  of  alternate  awe  and  pleasure 
through  his  pulses. 

He  glanced  quickly  around.  The  moon 
was  hidden  by  a  passing  cloud,  and  only 
the  faint  outlines  of  the  house  he  had 
just  quitted  were  visible.  "  Is  that  you, 
S  pence  ?  "  he  said  tremulously. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  voice,  and  a  figure 
dimly  emerged  from  the  corner  of  the  cor- 
ral. 

"  Lay  low,  lay  low,  for  God's  sake,"  said 


152  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

Patterson,  hurriedly  throwing  himself  upon 
the  apparition.  "  The  sheriff  and  his  posse 
are  in  there." 

"  But  I  must  speak  to  you  a  moment," 
said  the  figure. 

"  Wait,"  said  Patterson,  glancing  towards 
the  building.  Its  blank,  shutteiiess  win- 
dows revealed  no  inner  light ;  a  profound 
silence  encompassed  it.  "  Come  quick,"  he 
whispered.  Letting  his  grasp  slip  down  to 
the  unresisting  hand  of  the  stranger,  he 
half  dragged,  half  led  him,  brushing  against 
the  wall,  into  the  open  door  of  the  deserted 
bar-room  he  had  just  quitted,  locked  the  in- 
ner door,  poured  a  glass  of  whiskey  from  a 
decanter,  gave  it  to  him,  and  then  watched 
him  drain  it  at  a  single  draught.  The 
moon  came  out,  and  falling  through  the 
bare  windows  full  upon  the  stranger's  face, 
revealed  the  artistic  but  slightly  disheveled 
curls  and  moustache  of  the  fugitive,  Spen- 
cer Tucker. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  real  influ- 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  153 

ence  of  this  unfortunate  man  upon  his  fel- 
lows, it  seemed  to  find  expression  in  a  sin- 
gular unanimity  of  criticism.  Patterson 
looked  at  him  with  a  half-dismal,  half- wel- 
coming smile.  "  Well,  you  are  a  h — 11  of 
a  fellow,  ain't  you  ?  " 

Spencer  Tucker  passed  his  hand  through 
his  hair  and  lifted  it  from  his  forehead, 
with  a  gesture  at  once  emotional  and  theat- 
rical. "  I  am  a  man  with  a  price  on  me ! " 
he  said  bitterly.  "  Give  me  up  to  the  sher- 
iff, and  you  '11  get  five  thousand  dollars. 
Help  me,  and  you  '11  get  nothing.  That 's 
my  d — d  luck,  and  yours  too,  I  suppose." 

"I  reckon  you're  right  there,"  said  Pat- 
terson gloomily.  "But  I  thought  you  got 
clean  away.  Went  off  in  a  ship  "  — 

"  Went  off  in  a  boat  to  a  ship,"  inter* 
rupted  Tucker  savagely ;  "  went  off  to  a 
ship  that  had  all  my  things  on  board  — 
everything.  The  cursed  boat  capsized  in  a 
squall  just  off  the  Heads.  The  ship,  dr— n 
her,  sailed  away,  the  men  thinking  I  was 


154  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

drowned,  likely,  and  that  they'd  make  a 
good  thing  off  my  goods,  I  reckon." 

"  But  the  girl,  Inez,  who  was  with  you, 
did  n't  she  make  a  row  ?  " 

"Quien  sabe?"  returned  Tucker,  with 
a  reckless  laugh.  "  Well,  I  hung  on  like 
grim  death  to  that  boat's  keel  until  one  of 
those  Chinese  fishermen,  in  a  'dug-out,' 
hauled  me  in  opposite  Saucelito.  I  char- 
tered him  and  his  dug-out  to  bring  me 
down  here." 

"  Why  here  ?  "  asked  Patterson,  with  a 
certain  ostentatious  caution  that  ill-con- 
cealed his  pensive  satisfaction. 

"  You  may  well  ask,"  returned  Tucker, 
with  an  equal  ostentation  of  bitterness,  as 
he  slightly  waved  his  companion  away. 
44  But  I  reckoned  I  could  trust  a  white  man 
that  I'd  been  kind  to,  and  who  wouldn't 
go  back  on  me.  No,  no,  let  me  go !  Hand 
me  over  to  the  sheriff !  " 

Patterson  had  suddenly  grasped  both  the 
hands  of  the  picturesque  scamp  before  him, 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  155 

with  an  affection  that  for  an  instant  almost 
shamed  the  man  who  had  ruined  him. 
But  Tucker's  egotism  whispered  that  this 
affection  was  only  a  recognition  of  his  own 
superiority,  and  felt  flattered.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  believe  that  he  was  really  the 
injured  party. 

"  What  I  have  and  what  I  have  had  is 
yours,  Spence,"  returned  Patterson,  with  a 
sad  and  simple  directness  that  made  any 
further  discussion  a  gratuitous  insult.  "  I 
only  wanted  to  know  what  you  reckoned  to 
do  here." 

"  I  want  to  get  over  across  the  Coast 
Range  to  Monterey,"  said  Tucker.  "  Once 
there,  one  of  those  coasting  schooners  will 
bring  me  down  to  Acapulco,  where  the  ship 
will  put  in." 

Patterson  remained  silent  for  a  moment. 
44  There  's  a  mustang  in  the  corral  you  can 
take — leastways,  I  shan't  know  that- it's 
gone  —  until  to-morrow  afternoon.  In  an 
hour  from  now,"  he  added,  looking  from 


156  A  SLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

the  window,  "  these  clouds  will  settle  down 
to  business.  It  will  rain;  there  will  be 
light  enough  for  you  to  find  your  way  by 
the  regular  trail  over  the  mountain,  but 
not  enough  for  any  one  to  know  you.  If 
you  can't  push  through  to-night,  you  can 
lie  over  at  the  posada  on  the  summit. 
Them  greasers  that  keep  it  won't  know 
you,  and  if  they  did  they  won't  go  back  on 
you.  And  if  they  did  go  back  on  you  no- 
body would  believe  them.  It's  mighty 
curious,"  he  added,  with  gloomy  philoso- 
phy, but  I  reckon  it  's  the  reason  why 
Providence  allows  this  kind  of  cattle  to 
live  among  white  men  and  others  made  in 
his  image.  Take  a  piece  of  pie,  won't 
you  ?  "  he  continued,  abandoning  this  ab- 
stract reflection  and  producing  half  a  flat 
pumpkin  pie  from  the  bar.  Spencer  Tucker 
grasped  the  pie  with  one  hand  and  his 
friend's  fingers  with  the  other,  and  for  a  few 
moments  was  silent  from  the  hurried  deg- 
lutition of  viand  and  sentiment.  "  You  're 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  157 

a  white  man,  Patterson,  any  way,"  he  re- 
sumed. "  I  '11  take  your  horse,  and  put  it 
down  in  our  account,  at  your  own  figure. 
As  soon  as  this  cursed  thing  is  blown  over, 
I  '11  be  back  here  and  see  you  through,  you 
bet.  I  don't  desert  my  friends,  however 
rough  things  go  with  me." 

"  I  see  you  don't,"  returned  Patterson, 
with  an  unconscious  and  serious  simplicity 
that  had  the  effect  of  the  most  exquisite 
irony.  "  I  was  only  just  saying  to  the 
sheriff  that  if  there  was  anything  I  could 
have  done  for  you,  you  would  n't  have  cut 
away  without  letting  me  know."  Tucker 
glanced  uneasily  at  Patterson,  who  contin- 
ued, "  Ye  ain't  wanting  anything  else  ?  " 
Then  observing  that  his  former  friend  and 
patron  was  roughly  but  newly  clothed,  and 
betrayed  no  trace  of  his  last  escapade,  he 
added,  "  I  see  you  "ve  got  a  fresh  harness." 

"  That  d — d  Chinaman  bought  me  these 
at  the  landing ;  they  're  not  much  in  style 
or  fit,"  he  continued,  trying  to  get  a  moon- 


158  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

light  view  of  himself  in  the  mirror  be- 
hind the  bar,  "  but  that  don't  matter  here." 
He  filled  another  glass  of  spirits,  jauntily 
settled  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  add- 
ed, "  I  don't  suppose  there  are  any  girls 
around,  anyway." 

"  'Cept  your  wife ;  she  was  down  here 
this  afternoon,"  said  Patterson  medita- 
tively. 

Mr.  Tucker  paused  with  the  pie  in  his 
hand.  "  Ah,  yes !  "  He  essayed  a  reckless 
laugh,  but  that  evident  simulation  failed 
before  Patterson's  melancholy.  With  an 
assumption  of  falling  in  with  his  friend's 
manner,  rather  than  from  any  personal 
anxiety,  he  continued,  "  Well  ?  " 

"  That  man  Poindexter  was  down  here 
with  her.  Put  her  in  the  hacienda  to  hold 
possession  afore  the  news  came  out." 

"  Impossible  !  "  said  Tucker,  rising  has- 
tily. "  It  don't  belong  —  that  is  "  —  he 
hesitated. 

"  Yer  thinking  the  creditors  '11    get  it, 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  159 

mebbe,"  returned  Patterson,  gazing  at  the 
floor.  "  Not  as  long  as  she  's  in  it ;  no  sir .' 
Whether  it 's  really  hers,  or  she 's  only 
keeping  house  for  Poindexter,  she  's  a  fix- 
ture, you  bet.  They  're  a  team  when  they 
pull  together,  they  are  !  " 

The  smile  slowly  faded  from  Tucker's 
face,  that  now  looked  quite  rigid  in  the 
moonlight.  He  put  down  his  glass  and 
walked  to  the  window  as  Patterson  gloom- 
ily continued,  "But  that 's  nothing  to  you. 
You  've  got  ahead  of  'em  both,  and  had 
your  revenge  by  going  off  with  the  gal. 
That 's  what  I  said  all  along.  When  folks 
—  specially  women  folks  —  wondered  how 
you  could  leave  a  woman  like  your  wife, 
and  go  off  with  a  scallawag  like  that  gal,  I 
allers  said  they  'd  find  out  there  was  a  rea- 
son. And  when  your  wife  came  flaunting 
down  here  with  Poindexter  before  she  'd 
quite  got  quit  of  you,  I  reckon  they  began  to 
see  the  whole  little  game.  No,  sir  !  I  knew 
it  was  n't  on  account  of  the  gal !  Why,  when 


160  A  SLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

you  came  here  to-night  and  told  me  quite 
nat'ral-like  and  easy  how  she  went  off  in 
.  the  ship,  and  then  calmly  ate  your  pie  and 
drank  your  whiskey  after  it,  I  knew  you 
did  n't  care  for  her.  There 's  my  hand, 
Spence ;  you  ?re  a  trump,  even  if  you  are 
a  little  looney,  eh  ?  Why,  what 's  up  ?  " 

Shallow  and  selfish  as  Tucker  was,  Pat- 
terson's words  seemed  like  a  revelation  that 
shocked  him  as  profoundly  as  it  might 
have  shocked  a  nobler  nature.  The  simple 
vanity  and  selfishness  that  made  him  un- 
able to  conceive  any  higher  reason  for  his 
wife's  loyalty  than  his  own  personal  popu- 
larity and  success,  now  that  he  no  longer 
possessed  that  6clat  made  him  equally  ca- 
pable of  the  lowest  suspicions.  He  was  a 
dishonored  fugitive,  broken  in  fortune  and 
reputation — why  should  she  not  desert 
him  ?  He  had  been  unfaithful  to  her  from 
wildness,  from  caprice,  from  the  effect  of 
those  fascinating  qualities ;  it  seemed  to 
him  natural  that  she  should  be  disloyal 


A  BLUE  GEASS  PENELOPE.  161 

from  more  deliberate  motives,  and  he 
hugged  himself  with  that  belief.  Yet  there 
was  enough  doubt,  enough  -of  haunting  sus- 
picion that  he  had  lost  or  alienated  a  pow- 
erful affection,  to  make  him  thoroughly 
miserable.  He  returned  his  friend's  grasp 
convulsively  and  buried  his  face  upon  his 
shoulder.  But  he  was  not  above  feeling  a 
certain  exultation  in  the  effect  of  his  mis- 
ery upon  the  dog-like,  unreasoning  affection 
of  Patterson,  nor  could  he  entirely  refrain 
from  slightly  posing  his  affliction  before 
that  sympathetic  but  melancholy  man. 
Suddenly  he  raised  his  head,  drew  back, 
and  thrust  his  hand  into  his  bosom  with  a 
theatrical  gesture. 

"  What 's  to  keep  me  from  killing  Pom- 
dexter  in  his  tracks  ?  "  he  said  wildly. 

"  Nothin'  but  his  shooting  first,"  re- 
turned Patterson,  with  dismal  practicality. 
"  He  's  mighty  quick,  like  all  them  army 
men.  It 's  about  even,  I  reckon,  that  he 
don't  get  me  first,"  he  added  in  an  ominous 
voice. 


162  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

"  No  !  "  returned  Tucker,  grasping  his 
hand  again.  "  This  is  not  your  affair,  Pat- 
terson ;  leave  him  to  me  when  I  come  back." 

"  If  he  ever  gets  the  drop  on  me,  I 
reckon  he  won't  wait,"  continued  Patter- 
son lugubriously.  "  He  seems  to  object  to 
my  passin'  criticism  on  your  wife,  as  if  she 
was  a  queen  or  an  angel." 

The  blood  came  to  Spencer's  cheek,  and 
he  turned  uneasily  to  the  window.  "  It 's 
dark  enough  now  for  a  start,"  he  said  hur- 
riedly, "  and  if  I  could  get  across  the  moun- 
tain without  lying  over  at  the  summit,  it 
would  be  a  day  gained." 

Patterson  arose  without  a  word,  filled  a 
flask  of  spirit,  handed  it  to  his  friend,  and 
silently  led  the  way  through  the  slowly 
falling  rain  and  the  now  settled  darkness. 
The  mustang  was  quickly  secured  and  sad- 
dled, a  heavy  poncho  afforded  Tucker  a  dis- 
guise as  well  as  a  protection  from  the  rain. 
With  a  few  hurried,  disconnected  words, 
and  an  abstracted  air,  he  once  more  shook 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  163 

his  friend's  hand  and  issued  cautiously  from 
the  corral.  When  out  of  earshot  from  the 
house  he  put  spurs  to  the  mustang,  and 
dashed  into  a  gallop. 

To  intersect  the  mountain  road  he  was 
obliged  to  traverse  part  of  the  highway  his 
wife  had  walked  that  afternoon,  and  to 
pass  within  a  mile  of  the  casa  where  she 
was.  Long  before  he  reached  that  point 
his  eyes  were  straining  the  darkness  in 
that  direction  for  some  indication  of  the 
house  which  was  to  him  familiar.  Becom- 
ing now  accustomed  to  the  even  obscurity, 
less  trying  to  the  vision  than  the  alternate 
light  and  shadow  of  cloud  or  the  full  glare 
of  the  moonlight,  he  fancied  he  could  dis- 
tinguish its  low  walls  over  the  monotonous 
level.  One  of  those  impulses  which  had  so 
often  taken  the  place  of  resolution  in  his 
character  suddenly  possessed  him  to  di- 
verge from  his  course  and  approach  the 
house.  Why,  he  could  not  have  explained. 
It  was  not  from  any  feeling  of  jealous  sus- 


164  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

picion  or  contemplated  revenge  —  that  had 
passed  with  the  presence  of  Patterson  ;  it 
was  not  from  any  vague  lingering  senti- 
ment for  the  woman  he  had  wronged  —  he 
would  have  shrunk  from  meeting  her  at 
that  moment.  But  it  was  full  of  these  and 
more  possibilities  by  which  he  might  or 
might  not  be  guided,  and  was  at  least  a 
movement  towards  some  vague  end,  and  a 
distraction  from  certain  thoughts  he  dared 
not  entertain  and  could  not  entirely  dismiss. 
Inconceivable  and  inexplicable  to  human 
reason,  it  might  have  been  acceptable  to 
the  Divine  omniscience  for  its  predestined 
result. 

He  left  the  road  at  a  point  where  the 
marsh  encroached  upon  the  meadow,  famil- 
iar to  him  already  as  near  the  spot  where 
he  had  debarked  from  the  Chinaman's  boat 
the  day  before.  He  remembered  that  the 
walls  of  the  hacienda  were  distinctly  visible 
from  the  tules  where  he  had  hidden  all  day, 
and  he  now  knew  that  the  figures  he  had 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  165 

observed  near  the  building,  which  had  de- 
terred his  first  attempts  at  landing,  must 
have  been  his  wife  and  his  friend.  He 
knew  that  a  long  tongue  of  the  slough  filled 
by  the  rising  tide  followed  the  marsh,  and 
lay  between  him  and  the  hacienda.  The 
sinking  of  his  horse's  hoofs  in  the  spongy 
soil  determined  its  proximity,  and  he  made 
a  detour  to  the  right  to  avoid  it.  In  doing 
so,  a  light  suddenly  rose  above  the  distant 
horizon  ahead  of  him,  trembled  faintly,  and 
then  burned  with  a  steady  lustre.  It  was  a 
light  at  the  hacienda.  Guiding  his  horse 
half  abstractedly  in  this  direction,  his  prog- 
ress was  presently  checked  by  the  splash- 
ing of  the  animal's  hoofs  in  the  water.  But 
the  turf  below  was  firm,  and  a  salt  drop 
that  had  spattered  to  his  lips  told  him  that 
it  was  only  the  encroaching  of  the  tide  in 
the  meadow.  With  his  eyes  on  the  light, 
he  again  urged  his  horse  forward.  The 
rain  lulled,  the  clouds  began  to  break,  the 
landscape  alternately  lightened  and  grew 


166  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

dark ;  the  outlines  of  the  crumbling  haci- 
enda walls  that  enshrined  the  light  grew 
more  visible.  A  strange  and  dreamy  re- 
semblance to  the  long  blue-grass  plain 
before  his  wife's  paternal  house,  as  seen  by 
him  during  his  evening  rides  to  courtship, 
pressed  itself  upon  him.  He  remembered, 
too,  that  she  used  to  put  a  light  in  the  win- 
dow to  indicate  her  presence.  Following 
this  retrospect,  the  moon  came  boldly  out, 
sparkled  upon  the  overflow  of  silver  at  his 
feet,  seemed  to  show  the  dark,  opaque 
meadow  beyond  for  a  moment,  and  then 
disappeared.  It  was  dark  now,  but  the 
lesser  earthly  star  still  shone  before  him  as 
a  guide,  and  pushing  towards  it,  he  passed 
in  the  all-embracing  shadow..  - 


IV. 

As  Mrs.  Tucker,  erect,  white,  and  rigid, 
drove  away  from  the  tienda^  it  seemed  to 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  167 

her  to  sink  again  into  the  monotonous 
plain,  with  all  its  horrible  realities.  Ex- 
cept that  there  was  now  a  new  and  heart- 
breaking significance  to  the  solitude  and 
loneliness  of  the  landscape,  all  that  had 
passed  might  have  been  a  dream.  But  as 
the  blood  came  back  to  her  cheek,  and  lit- 
tle by  little  her  tingling  consciousness  re- 
turned, it  seemed  as  if  her  life  had  been 
the  dream,  and  this  last  scene  the  awaken- 
ing reality.  With  eyes  smarting  with  the 
moisture  of  shame,  the  scarlet  blood  at 
times  dyeing  her  very  neck  and  temples, 
she  muffled  her  lowered  crest  in  her  shawl 
and  bent  over  the  reins.  Bit  by  bit  she 
recalled,  in  Poindexter's  mysterious  caution 
and  strange  allusions,  the  corroboration  of 
her  husband's  shame  and  her  own  disgrace. 
This  was  why  she  was  brought  hither  —  the 
deserted  wife,  the  abandoned  confederate ! 
The  mocking  glitter  of  the  concave  vault 
above  her,  scoured  by  the  incessant  wind, 
the  cold  stare  of  the  shining  pools  beyond, 


168  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

the  hard  outlines  of  the  Coast  Range,  and 
the  jarring  accompaniment  of  her  horse's 
hoofs  and  rattling  buggy  wheels  alternately 
goaded  and  distracted  her.  She  found  her- 
self repeating  "  No  !  no  !  no  ! "  with  the 
dogged  reiteration  of  fever.  She  scarcely 
knew  when  or  how  she  reached  the  haci- 
enda. She  was  only  conscious  that  as  she 
entered  the  patio  the  dusty  solitude  that  had 
before  filled  her  with  unrest  now  came  to 
her  like  balm.  A  benumbing  peace  seemed 
to  fall  from  the  crumbling  walls  ;  the  peace 
of  utter  seclusion,  isolation,  oblivion,  death  ! 
Nevertheless,  an  hour  later,  when  the  jingle 
of  spurs  and  bridle  were  again  heard  in  the 
road,  she  started  to  her  feet  with  bent 
brows  and  a  kindling  eye,  and  confronted 
Captain  Poindexter  in  the  corridor. 

"  I  would  not  have  intruded  upon  you  so 
soon  again,"  he  said  gravely,  "  but  I  thought 
I  might  perhaps  spare  you  a  repetition  of 
the  scene  of  this  morning.  Hear  me  out, 
please,"  he  added,  with  a  gentle,  half-dep- 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  169 

recating  gesture,  as  she  lifted  the  beauti- 
ful scorn  of  her  eyes  to  his.  "  I  have  just 
heard  that  your  neighbor,  Don  Jose  Santi- 
erra,  of  Los  Gatos,  is  on  his  way  to  this 
house.  He  once  claimed  this  land,  and 
hated  your  husband,  who  bought  of  the 
rival  claimant,  whose  grant  was  confirmed. 
I  tell  you  this,"  he  added,  slightly  flushing 
as  Mrs.  Tucker  turned  impatiently  away, 
"  only  to  show  you  that  legally  he  has  no 
rights,  and  you  need  not  see  him  unless  you 
choose.  I  could  not  stop  his  coming  with- 
out perhaps  doing  you  more  harm  than 
good;  but  when  he  does  come,  my  pres- 
ence under  this  roof  as  your  legal  counsel 
will  enable  you  to  refer  him  to  me."  He 
stopped.  She  was  pacing  the  corridor  with 
short,  impatient  steps,  her  arms  dropped, 
and  her  hands  clasped  rigidly  before  her. 
"  Have  I  your  permission  to  stay  ?  " 

She  suddenly  stopped  in  her  walk,  ap- 
proached him  rapidly,  and  fixing  her  eyes 
on  his,  said,  — 


170  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

"  Do  I  know  all,  now  —  every  tiling  ?  " 

He  could  only  reply  that  she  had  not  yet 
told  him  what  she  had  heard. 

"  Well,"  she  said  scornfully,  "  that  my 
husband  has  been  cruelly  imposed  upon  — 
imposed  upon  by  some  wretched  woman, 
who  has  made  him  sacrifice  his  property, 
his  friends,  his  honor  —  everything  but 
me  ?  "  * 

"  Everything  but  whom  ?  "  gasped  Poin- 
dexter. 

"  But  ME  !  " 

Poindexter  gazed  at  the  sky,  the  air,  the 
deserted  corridor,  the  stones  of  the  patio 
itself,  and  then  at  the  inexplicable  woman 
before  him.  Then  he  said  gravely,  "  I 
think  you  know  everything."  - 

"  Then  if  my  husband  has  left  me  all  he 
could  —  this  property,"  she  went  on  rap- 
idly, twisting  her  handkerchief  between 
her  fingers,  "I  can  do  with  it  what  I  like, 
can't  I  ?  " 

"  You  certainly  can." 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  171 

"  Then  sell  it,"  she  said,  with  passionate 
vehemence.  "  Sell  it  —  all !  everything ! 
And  sell  these."  She  darted  into  her  bed- 
room, and  returned  with  the  diamond  rings 
she  had  torn  from  her  fingers  and  ears  when 
she  entered  the  house.  "  Sell  them  for  any-  , 
thing  they  '11  bring,  only  sell  them  at  once." 

"  But  for  what  ?  "  asked  Poindexter, 
with  demure  lips  but  twinkling  eyes. 

"  To  pay  the  debts  that  this  —  this  — 
woman  has  led  him  into;  to  return  the 
money  she  has  stolen ! "  she  went  on  rap- 
idly, "  to  keep  him  from  sharing  her  in- 
famy !  Can't  you  understand  ?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  madam,"  began  Poin- 
dexter, "  even  if  this  could  be  done  "  — 

"  Don't  tell  me  '  if  it  could  '  —  it  must 
be  done.  Do  you  think  I  could  sleep  under 
this  roof,  propped  up  by  the  timbers  of  that 
ruined  tienda  f  Do  you  think  I  could  wear 
those  diamonds  again,  while  that  termagant 
shopwoman  can  say  that  her  money  bought 
them?  No.  If  you  are  my  husband's 


172  A  SLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

friend  you  will  do  this  — for  —  for  his 
sake."  She  stopped,  locked  and  interlocked 
her  cold  fingers  before  her,  and  said,  hesi- 
tating and  mechanically,  "  You  meant  well, 
Captain  Poindexter,  in  bringing  me  here,  I 
know !  You  must  not  think  that  I  blame 
you  for  it,  or  for  the  miserable  result  of  it 
that  you  have  just  witnessed.  But  if  I 
have  gained  anything  by  it,  for  God's  sake 
let  me  reap  it  quickly,  that  I  may  give  it  to 
these  people  and  go !  I  have  a  friend  who 
can  aid  me  to  get  to  my  husband  or  to 
my  home  in  Kentucky,  where  Spencer  will 
yet  find  me,  I  know.  I  want  nothing 
more."  She  stopped  again.  With  another 
woman  the  pause  would  have  been  one  of 
tears.  But  she  kept  her  head  above  the 
flood  that  filled  her  heart,  and  the  clear 
eyes  fixed  upon  Poindexter,  albeit  pained, 
were  un  dimmed. 

"  But  this  would  require  time,"  said 
Poindexter,  with  a  smile  of  compassionate 
explanation  ;  "  you  could  not  sell  now,  no- 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  173 

body  would  buy.  You  are  safe  to  hold  this 
property  while  you  are  in  actual  possession, 
but  you  are  not  strong  enough  to  guarantee 
it  to  another.  There  may  still  be  litiga- 
tion ;  your  husband  has  other  creditors 
than  these  people  you  have  talked  with. 
But  while  nobody  could  oust  you  —  the 
wife  who  would  have  the  sympathies  of 
judge  and  jury  —  it  might  be  a  different 
case  with  any  one  who  derived  title  from 
you.  Any  purchaser  would  know  that  you 
could  not  sell,  or  if  you  did,  it  would  be  at 
a  ridiculous  sacrifice." 

She  listened  to  him  abstractedly,  walked 
to  the  end  of  the  corridor,  returned,  and 
without  looking  up,  said,  — 

"  I  suppose  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

"  This  woman.     You  have  seen  her  ?  " 

"  Never,  to  my  knowledge." 

"  And  you  are  his  friend !  That 's 
strange."  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 
"  Well,"  she  continued  impatiently,  "  who 


174  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

is  she  ?  and  what  is  she  ?  You  know  that 
surely?" 

"I  know  no  more  of  her  than  what  I 
have  said,"  said  Poindexter.  "  She  is  a  no- 
torious woman." 

The  swift  color  came  to  Mrs.  Tucker's 
face  as  if  the  epithet  had  been  applied  to 
herself.  "  I  suppose,"  she  said  in  a  dry 
voice,  as  if  she  were  asking  a  business 
question,  but  with  an  eye  that  showed  her 
rising  anger,  —  "I  suppose  there  is  some 
law  by  which  creatures  of  this  kind  can  be 
followed  and  brought  to  justice  —  some  law 
that  would  keep  innocent  people  from  suf- 
fering for  their  crimes  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Poindexter,  "  that 
arresting  her  would  hardly  help  these  peo- 
ple over  in  the  tienda." 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  them,"  responded 
Mrs.  Tucker,  with  a  sudden  sublime  con- 
tempt for  the  people  whose  cause  she  had 
espoused  ;  "  I  am  talking  of  my  husband." 

Poindexter  bit  his  lip.     "  You  'd  hardly 


A  BLUE  GKASS  PENELOPE.     '       175 

think  of  bringing  back  the  strongest  wit- 
ness against  him,"  he  said  bluntly. 

Mrs.  Tucker  dropped  her  eyes  and  was 
silent.  A  sudden  shame  suffused  Poindex- 
ter's  cheek  ;  he  felt  as  if  he  had  struck  that 
woman  a  blow.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he 
said  hastily,  "  I  am  talking  like  a  lawyer  to 
a  lawyer."  He  would  have  taken  any  other 
woman  by  the  hand  in  the  honest  fullness 
of  his  apology,  but  something  restrained 
him  here.  He  only  looked  down  gently  on 
her  lowered  lashes,  and  repeated  his  ques- 
tion if  he  should  remain  during  the  coming 
interview  with  Don  Jose*.  "  I  must  beg 
you  to  determine  quickly,"  he  added,  "  for 
I  already  hear  him  entering  the  gate." 

"  Stay,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  as  the  ring- 
ing of  spurs  and  clatter  of  hoofs  came  from 
the  corral.  "One  moment."  She  looked 
up  suddenly,  and  said,  "  How  long  had  'he 
known  her  ?  "  But  before  he  could  reply 
there  was  a  step  in  the  doorway,  and  the 
figure  of  Don  Jose  Santierra  emerged  from 
the  archway. 


176  A  BLUE  GHASS  PENELOPE. 

He  was  a  man  slightly  past  middle  age, 
fair  and  well  shaven,  wearing  a  black  broad- 
cloth serape,  the  deeply  embroidered  open- 
ing of  which  formed  a  collar  of  silver  rays 
around  his  neck,  while  a  row  of  silver  but- 
tons down  the  side  seams  of  his  riding 
trousers,  and  silver  spurs  completed  his 
singular  equipment.  Mrs.  Tucker's  swift 
feminine  glance  took  in  these  details,  as 
well  as  the  deep  salutation,  more  formal 
than  the  exuberant  frontier  politeness  she 
was  accustomed  to,  with  which  he  greeted 
her.  It  was  enough  to  arrest  her  first  im- 
pulse to  retreat.  She  hesitated  and  stopped 
as  Poindexter  stepped  forward,  partly  inter- 
posing between  them,  acknowledging  Don 
Jose's  distant  recognition  of  himself  with 
an  ironical  accession  of  his  usual  humorous 
tolerance.  The  Spaniard  did  not  seem  to 
notice  it,  but  remained  gravely  silent  before 
Mrs.  Tucker,  gazing  at  her  with  an  expres- 
sion of  intent  and  unconscious  absorption. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Don  JoseY'  said 


A  SLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  177 

Poindexter,  with  ironical  concern,  "  it  is 
Mrs.  Tucker.  Your  eyes  do  not  deceive 
you.  She  will  be  glad  to  do  the  honors  of 
her  house,"  he  continued,  with  a  simulation 
of  appealing  to  her,  "unless  you  visit  her 
on  business,  when  I  need  not  say  I  shall  be 
only  too  happy  to  attend  you,  as  before." 

Don  Jose,  with  a  slight  lifting  of  the  eye- 
brows, allowed  himself  to  become  conscious 
of  the  lawyer's  meaning.  "  It  is  not  of 
business  that  I  come  to  kiss  the  Senora's 
hand  to-day,"  he  replied,  with  a  melan- 
choly softness ;  "  it  is  as  her  neighbor,  to 
put  myself  at  her  disposition.  Ah !  the 
what  have  we  here  for  a  lady  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued, raising  his  eyes  in  deprecation  of 
the  surroundings ;  "  a  house  of  nothing, 
a  place  of  winds  and  dry  bones,  without 
refreshments,  or  satisfaction,  or  delicacy. 
The  Senora  will  not  refuse  to  make  us 
proud  this  day  to  send  her  of  that  which 
we  have  in  our  poor  home  at  Los  Gatos,  to 
make  her  more  complete.  Of  what  shall 
12 


178  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

it  be?  Let  her  make  choice.  Or  if  she 
would  commemorate  this  day  by  accepting 
of  our  hospitality  at  Los  Gatos,  until  she 
shall  arrange  herself  the  more  to  receive  us 
here,  we  shall  have  too  much  honor." 

"  The  Senora  would  only  find  it  the 
more  difficult  to  return  to  this  humble  roof 
again,  after  once  leaving  it  for  Don  Jose"s 
hospitality,"  said  Poindexter,  with  a  de- 
mure glance  at  Mrs.  Tucker.  But  the  in- 
nuendo seemed  to  lapse  equally  unheeded 
by  his  fair  client  and  the  stranger.  Raising 
her  eyes  with  a  certain  timid  dignity  which 
Don  Josh's  presence  seemed  to  have  called 
out,  she  addressed  herself  to  him. 

"  You  are  very  kind  and  considerate,  Mis- 
ter Santierra,  and  I  thank  you.  I  know 
that  my  husband "  —  she  let  the  clear 
beauty  of  her  translucent  eyes  rest  full  on 
both  men  —  "  would  thank  you  too.  But 
I  shall  not  be  here  long  enough  to  accept 
your  kindness  in  this  house  or  in  your  own. 
I  have  but  one  desire  and  object  now.  It 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  179 

is  to  dispose  of  this  property,  and  indeed  all 
I  possess,  to  pay  the  debt  of  my  husband. 
It  is  in  your  power,  perhaps,  to  help  me. 
I  am  told  that  you  wish  to  possess  Los 
Cuervos,"  she  went  on,  equally  oblivious 
of  the  consciousness  that  appeared  in  Don 
Josh's  face,  and  a  humorous  perplexity  on 
the  brow  of  Poindexter.  "  If  you  can  ar- 
range it  with  Mr.  Poindexter,  you  will  find 
me  a  liberal  vendor.  That  much  you  can 
do,  and  I  know  you  will  believe  I  shall  be 
grateful.  You  can  do  no  more,  unless  it  be 
to  say  to  your  friends  that  Mrs.  Belle 
Tucker  remains  here  only  for  that  purpose, 
and  to  carry  out  what  she  knows  to  be  the 
wishes  of  her  husband."  She  paused,  bent 
her  pretty  crest,  dropped  a  quaint  curtsey 
to  the  superior  age,  the  silver  braid,  and 
the  gentlemanly  bearing  of  Don  Jose*,  and 
with  the  passing  sunshine  of  a  smile  disap- 
peared from  the  corridor. 

The  two  men  remained  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, Don  Jos£  gazing  abstractedly  on  the 


180  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

door  through  which  she  had  vanished,  un- 
til Poindexter,  with  a  return  of  his  toler- 
ant smile,  said,  "  You  have  heard  the  views 
of  Mrs.  Tucker.  You  know  the  situation 
as  well  as  she  does." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  possibly  better." 

Poindexter  darted  a  quick  glance  at  the 
grave,  sallow  face  of  Don  Jose,  but  detect- 
ing no  unusual  significance  in  his  manner, 
continued,  "  As  you  see,  she  leaves  this 
matter  in  my  hands.  Let  us  talk  like  busi- 
ness men.  Have  you  any  idea  of  purchas- 
ing this  property  ?  " 

"  Of  purchasing,  ah,  no." 

Poindexter  bent  his  brows,  but  quickly 
relaxed  them  with  a  smile  of  humorous  for- 
giveness. "  If  you  have  any  other  idea, 
Don  Jose*,  I  ought  to  warn  you,  as  Mrs. 
Tucker's  lawyer,  that  she  is  in  legal  pos- 
session here,  and  that  nothing  but  her  own 
act  can  change  that  position." 

"  Ah,  so." 

Irritated  at  the  shrug  which  accompa- 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  181 

nied  this,  Poindexter  continued  haughtily, 
"  If  I  am  to  understand,  you  have  nothing 
to  say  "  — 

"To  say,  ah,  yes,  possibly.  But"  —  he 
glanced  toward  the  door  of  Mrs.  Tucker's 
room  —  "  not  here."  .  He  stopped,  appeared 
to  recall  himself,  and  with  an  apologetic 
smile  and  a  studied  but  graceful  gesture  of 
invitation,  he  motioned  to  the  gateway,  and 
said,  "  Will  you  ride  ?  " 

"  What  can  the  fellow  be  up  to  ?"  mut- 
tered Poindexter,  as  with  an  assenting  nod 
he  proceeded  to  remount  his  horse.  "  If 
he  was  n't  an  old  hidalgo,  I  'd  mistrust  him. 
No  matter  !  here  goes  !  " 

The  Don  also  remounted  his  half-broken 
mustang  ;  they  proceeded  in  solemn  silence 
through  the  corral,  and  side  by  side  emerged 
on  the  open  plain.  Poindexter  glanced 
around  ;  no  other  being  was  in  sight.  It 
was  not  until  the  lonely  hacienda  had  also 
sunk  behind  them  that  Don  Jos£  broke  the 
silence. 


182  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

"You  say  just  now  we  shall  speak  as 
business  men.  I  say  no,  Don  Marco  ;  I 
will  not.  I  shall  speak,  we  shall  speak,  as 
gentlemen." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Poindexter,  who  was  be- 
ginning to  be  amused. 

"  I  say  just  now  I  will  not  purchase  the 
rancho  from  the  Seiiora.  And  why  ?  Look 
you,  Don  Marco ;  "  he  reined  in  his  horse, 
thrust  his  hand  under  his  serape,  and  drew 
out  a  folded  document :  "  this  is  why." 

With  a  smile,  Poindexter  took  the  paper 
from  his  hand  and  opened  it.  But  the 
smile  faded  from  his  lips  as  he  read.  With 
blazing  eyes  he  spurred  his  horse  beside 
the  Spaniard,  almost  unseating  him,  and 
said  sternly,  u  What  does  this 'mean  ?  " 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  repeated  Don 
Jose",  with  equally  flashing  eyes,  "  I  '11  tell 
you.  It  means  that  your  client,  this  man 
Spencer  Tucker,  is  a  Judas,  a  traitor !  It 
means  that  he  gave  Los  Cuervos  to  his  mis- 
tress a  year  ago,  and  that  she  sold  it  to  me 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  183 

—  to  me,  you  hear!  —  me,  Josd  Santierra, 
the  day  before  she  left !  It  means  that  the 
coyote  of  a  Spencer,  the  thief,  who  bought 
these  lands  of  a  thief,  and  gave  them  to  a 
thief,  has  tricked  you  all.  Look,"  he  said, 
rising  in  his  saddle,  holding  the  paper  like 
a  bdton,  and  defining  with  a  sweep  of  his 
arm  the  whole  level  plain,  "  all  these  lands 
were  once  mine,  they  are  mine  again  to- 
day. Do  I  want  to  purchase  Los  Cuervos  ? 
you  ask,  for  you  will  speak  of  the  business. 
Well,  listen.  I  have  purchased  Los  Cuer- 
vos, and  here  is  the  deed." 

"  But  it  has  never  been  recorded,"  said 
Poindexter,  with  a  carelessness  he  was  far 
from  feeling. 

"  Of  a  verity,  no.  Do  you  wish  that  I 
should  record  it  ?  "  asked  Don  Jose,  with  a 
return  of  his  simple  gravity. 

Poindexter  bit  his  lip.  "  You  said  we 
were  to  talk  like  gentlemen,"  he  returned. 
"  Do  you  think  you  have  come  into  posses- 
sion of  this  alleged  deed  like  a  gentle- 


184  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

Don  Jose  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I 
found  it  tossed  in  the  lap  of  a  harlot.  I 
bought  it  for  a  song.  Eh,  what  would 
you?" 

"  Would  you  sell  it  again  for  a  song  ?  " 
asked  Poindexter. 

"  Ah  !  what  is  this  ? "  said  Don  Jose*, 
lifting  his  iron-gray  brows ;  "  but  a  mo- 
ment ago  we  would  sell  everything,  for  any 
money.  Now  we  would  buy.  Is  it  so  ?  " 

"  One  moment,  Don  Jose,"  said  Poindex- 
ter, with  a  baleful  light  in  his  dark  eyes. 
"  Do  I  understand  that  you  are  the  ally  of 
Spencer  Tucker  and  his  mistress,  that  you 
intend  to  turn  this  doubly  betrayed  wife 
from  the  only  roof  she  has  to  cover  her  ?  " 

"Ah,  I  comprehend  not.- •  You  heard 
her  say  she  wished  to  go.  Perhaps  it  may 
please  me  to  distribute  largess  to  these  cat- 
tle yonder,  I  do  not  say  no.  More  she  does 
not  ask.  But  you,  Don  Marco,  of  whom 
are  you  advocate  ?  You  abandon  your 
client's  mistress  for  the  wife,  is  it  so?  " 


A  SLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  185 

"  What  I  may  do  you  will  learn  here^ 
after,"  said  Poindexter,  who  had  regained 
his  composure,  suddenly  reining  up  his 
horse.  "  As  our  paths  seem  likely  to  di- 
verge, they  had  better  begin  now.  Good 
morning." 

"  Patience,  my  friend,  patience  !  Ah, 
blessed  St.  Anthony,  what  these  Americans 
are  !  Listen.  For  what  you  shall  do,  I  do 
not  inquire.  The  question  is  to  me  what 
I  "  —  he  emphasized  the  pronoun  by  tap- 
ping himself  on  the  breast  —  "  I,  Josd  San- 
tierra,  will  do.  Well,  I  shall  tell  you.  To- 
day, nothing.  To-morrow,  nothing.  For 
a  week,  for  a  month,  nothing !  After,  we 
shall  see." 

Poindexter  paused  thoughtfully.  "  Will 
you  give  your  word,  Don  Jose*,  that  you 
will  not  press  the  claim  for  a  month  ?  " 

"  Truly,  on  one  condition.  Observe  !  I 
do  not  ask  you  for  an  equal  promise,  that 
you  will  not  take  this  time  to  defend  your- 
self." He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  No  I 


186  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

It  is  only  this.  You  shall  promise  that 
during  that  time  the  Senora  Tucker  shall 
remain  ignorant  of  this  document." 

Poindexter  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I 
promise,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Good.     Adios,  Don  Marco." 

"  Adios,  Don  JoseV' 

The  Spaniard  put  spurs  to  his  mustang 
and  galloped  off  in  the  direction  of  Los 
Gatos.  The  lawyer  remained  for  a  mo- 
ment gazing  on  his  retreating  but  victori- 
ous figure.  For  the  first  time  the  old  look 
of  humorous  toleration  with  which  Mr. 
Poindexter  was  in  the  habit  of  regarding 
all  human  infirmity  gave  way  to  something 
like  bitterness.  "  I  might  have  guessed 
it,"  he  said,  with  a  slight. rise  of  color. 
"  He 's  an  old  fool ;  and  she  —  well,  perhaps 
it 's  all  the  better  for  her  !  "  He  glanced 
backwards  almost  tenderly  in  the  direction 
of  Los  Cuervos,  and  then  turned  his  head 
towards  the  embarcadero. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  a  creaking, 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  187 

antiquated  ox-cart  arrived  at  Los  Cuervos, 
bearing  several  articles  of  furniture,  and 
some  tasteful  ornaments  from  Los  Gatos, 
at  the  same  time  that  a  young  Mexican 
girl  mysteriously  appeared  in  the  kitchen, 
as  a  temporary  assistant  to  the  decrepit 
Concha.  These  were  both  clearly  attribu- 
table to  Don  Jose*,  whose  visit  was  not  so 
remote  but  that  these  delicate  attentions 
might  have  been  already  projected  before 
Mrs.  Tucker  had  declined  them,  and  she 
could  not,  without  marked  discourtesy,  re- 
turn them  now.  She  did  not  wish  to  seem 
discourteous ;  she  would  like  to  have  been 
more  civil  to  this  old  gentleman,  who  still 
retained  the  evidences  of  a  picturesque  and 
decorous  past,  and  a  repose  so  different 
from  the  life  that  was  perplexing  her.  Re- 
flecting that  if  he  bought  the  estate  these 
things  would  be  ready  to  his  hand,  and 
with  a  woman's  instinct  recognizing  their 
value  in  setting  off  the  house  to  other 
purchasers'  eyes,  she  took  a  pleasure  in 


188  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

tastefully  arranging  them,  and  even  found 
herself  speculating  how  she  might  have  en- 
joyed them  herself  had  she  been  able  to 
keep  possession  of  the  property.  After  all, 
it  would  not  have  been  so  lonely  if  refined 
and  gentle  neighbors,  like  this  old  man, 
would  have  sympathized  with  her ;  she  had 
an  instinctive  feeling  that,  in  their  own 
hopeless  decay  and  hereditary  unfitness  for 
this  new  civilization,  they  would  have  been 
more  tolerant  of  her  husband's  failure  than 
his  own  kind.  She  could  not  believe  that 
Don  Jose*  really  hated  her  husband  for 
buying  of  the  successful  claimant,  as  there 
was  no  other  legal  title.  Allowing  herself 
to  become  interested  in  the  guileless  gos- 
sip of  the  new  handmaiden,'  proud  of  her 
broken  English,  she  was  drawn  into  a  sym- 
pathy with  the  grave  simplicity  of  Don 
Jose*'s  character,  a  relic  of  that  true  nobil- 
ity which  placed  this  descendant  of  the 
Castilians  and  the  daughter  of  a  free  peo- 
ple on  the  same  level. 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  189 

In  this  way  the  second  day  of  her  occu- 
pancy of  Los  Cuervos  closed,  with  dumb 
clouds  along  the  gray  horizon,  and  the  par- 
oxysms of  hysterical  wind  growing  fainter 
and  fainter  outside  the  walls ;  with  the 
moon  rising  after  nightfall,  and  losing  it- 
self in  silent  and  mysterious  confidences 
with  drifting  scud.  She  went  to  bed  early, 
but  woke  past  midnight,  hearing,  as  she 
thought,  her  own  name  called.  The  im- 
pression was  so  strong  upon  her  that  she 
rose,  and,  hastily  enwrapping  herself,  went 
to  the  dark  embrasures  of  the  oven-shaped 
windows,  and  looked  out.  The  dwarfed 
oak  beside  the  window  was  still  dropping 
from  a  past  shower,  but  the  level  waste  of 
marsh  and  meadow  beyond  seemed  to  ad- 
vance and  recede  with  the  coming  and  go- 
ing of  the  moon.  Again  she  heard  her 
name  called,  and  this  time  in  accents  so 
strangely  familiar  that  with  a  slight  cry 
she  ran  into  the  corridor,  crossed  the  patio, 
and  reached  the  open  gate.  The  darkness 


190  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

that  had,  even  in  this  brief  interval,  again 
fallen  upon  the  prospect  she  tried  in  vain 
to  pierce  with  eye  and  voice.  A  blank  si- 
lence followed.  Then  the  veil  was  sud- 
denly withdrawn;  the  vast  plain,  stretch- 
ing from  the  mountain  to  the  sea,  shone  as 
clearly  as  in  the  light  of  day  ;  the  moving 
current  of  the  channel  glittered  like  black 
pearls,  the  stagnant  pools  like  molten  lead ; 
but  not  a  sign  of  life  nor  motion  broke  the 
monotony  of  the  broad  expanse.  She  must 
have  surely  dreamed  it.  A  chill  wind  drove 
her  back  to  the  house  again;  she  entered 
her  bedroom,  and  in  half  an  hour  she  was 
in  a  peaceful  sleep. 


V. 

The  two  men  kept  their  secret.  Mr. 
Poindexter  convinced  Mrs.  Tucker  that  the 
sale  of  Los  Cuervos  could  not  be  effected 
until  the  notoriety  of  her  husband's  flight 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  191 

had  been  fairly  forgotten,  and  she  was 
forced  to  accept  her  fate.  The  sale  of  her 
diamonds,  which  seemed  to  her  to  have 
realized  a  singularly  extravagant  sum,  en- 
abled her  to  quietly  reinstate  the  Patter- 
sons in  the  tienda  and  to  discharge  in  full 
her  husband's  liabilities  to  the  rancheros 
and  his  humbler  retainers. 

Meanwhile  the  winter  rains  had  ceased. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  clouds  had  sud- 
denly one  night  struck  their  white  tents 
and  stolen  away,  leaving  the  unvanquished 
sun  to  mount  the  vacant  sky  the  next 
morning  alone,  and  possess  it  thencefor^ 
ward  unchallenged.  One  afternoon  she 
thought  the  long  sad  waste  before  her  win- 
dow had  caught  some  tint  of  gayer  color 
from  the  sunset ;  a  week  later  she  found  it 
a  blazing  landscape  of  poppies,  broken  here 
and  there  by  blue  lagoons  of  lupine,  by 
pools  of  daisies,  by  banks  of  dog-roses,  by 
broad  outlying  shores  of  dandelions  that 
scattered  their  lavish  gold  to  the  foot  of 


192  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

the  hills,  where  the  green  billows  of  wild 
oats  carried  it  on  and  upwards  to  the 
darker  crest  of  pines.  For  two  months 
she  was  dazzled  and  bewildered  with  color. 
She  had  never  before  been  face  to  face 
with  this  spendthrift  Californian  Flora,  in 
her  virgin  wastefulness,  her  more  than  god- 
dess-like prodigality.  The  teeming  earth 
seemed  to  quicken  and  throb  beneath  her 
feet ;  the  few  circuits  of  a  plough  around 
the  outlying  corral  were  enough  to  call  out 
a  jungle  growth  of  giant  grain  that  almost 
hid  the  low  walls  of  the  hacienda.  In  this 
glorious  fecundity  of  the  earth,  in  this  joy- 
ous renewal  of  life  and  color,  in  this  opu- 
lent youth  and  freshness  of  soil  and  sky,  it 
alone  remained,  the  dead  and  sterile  Past, 
left  in  the  midst  of  buoyant  rejuvenescence 
and  resurrection,  like  an  empty  church- 
yard skull  upturned  on  the  springing  turf. 
Its  bronzed  adobe  walls  mocked  the  green 
vine  that  embraced  them,  the  crumbling 
dust  of  its  courtyard  remained  ungermi- 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  193 

nating  and  unfruitful ;  to  the  thousand  stir- 
ring voices  without,  its  dry  lips  alone  re- 
mained mute,  unresponsive  and  unchanged. 
During  this  time  Don  Jose  had  become 
a  frequent  visitor  at  Los  Cuervos,  bringing 
with  him  at  first  his  niece  and  sister  in  a 
stately  precision  of  politeness  that  was  not 
lost  on  the  proud  Blue  Grass  stranger.  She 
returned  their  visit  at  Los  Gatos,  and  there 
made  the  formal  acquaintance  of  Don  Jose's 
grandmother,  a  lady  who  still  regarded  the 
decrepit  Concha  as  a  giddy  muchacha,  and 
who  herself  glittered  as  with  the  phosphor- 
escence of  refined  decay.  Through  this  cir- 
cumstance she  learned  that  Don  Jose*  was 
not  yet  fifty,  and  that  his  gravity  of  man- 
ner and  sedateness  was  more  the  result  of 
fastidious  isolation  and  temperament  than 
years.  She  could  not  tell  why  the  informa- 
tion gave  her  a  feeling  of  annoyance,  but  it 
caused  her  to  regret  the  absence  of  Poin- 
dexter,  and  to  wonder,  also  somewhat  ner- 
vously, why  he  had  lately  avoided  her  pres- 


194  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

ence.  The  thought  that  he  might  be  do- 
ing so  from  a  recollection  of  the  innuendoes 
of  Mrs.  Patterson  caused  a  little  tremor 
of  indignation  in  her  pulses.  "  As  if  "  — 
,  but  she  did  not  finish  the  sentence  even 
to  herself,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  bitter 
tears. 

Yet  she  had  thought  of  the  husband 
who  had  so  cruelly  wronged  her  less  fever- 
ishly, less  impatiently  than  before.  For 
she  thought  she  loved  him  now  the  more 
deeply,  because,  although  she  was  not  rec- 
onciled to  his  absence,  it  seemed  to  keep 
alive  the  memory  of  what  he  had  been  be- 
fore his  one  wild  act  separated  them.  She 
had  never  seen  the  reflection  of  another 
woman's  eyes  in  his  ;  the  past;  contained  no 
haunting  recollection  of  waning  or  alien- 
ated affection  ;  she  could  meet  him  again, 
and,  clasping  her  arms  around  him,  awaken 
as  if  from  a  troubled  dream  without  re- 
proach or  explanation.  Her  strong  belief 
in  this  made  her  patient ;  she  no  longer 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  195 

sought  to  know  the  particulars  of  his  flight, 
and  never  dreamed  that  her  passive  sub- 
mission to  bis  absence  was  partly  due  to  a 
fear  that  something  in  his  actual  presence 
at  that  moment  would  have  destroyed  that 
belief  forever. 

For  this  reason  the  delicate  reticence  of 
the  people  at  Los  Gatos,  and  their  seclu- 
sion from  the  world  which  knew  of  her 
husband's  fault,  had  made  her  encourage 
the  visits  of  Don  Jose*,  until  from  the  in- 
stinct already  alluded  to  she  one  day  sum- 
moned Poindexter  to  Los  Cuervos,  on  the 
day  that  Don  Jos£  usually  called.  But  to 
her  surprise  the  two  men  met  more  or  less 
awkwardly  and  coldly,  and  her  tact  as 
hostess  was  tried  to  the  utmost  to  keep 
their  evident  antagonism  from  being  too 
apparent.  The  effort  to  reconcile  their 
mutual  discontent,  and  some  other  feeling 
she  did  not  quite  understand,  produced  a 
nervous  excitement  which  called  the  blood 
to  her  cheek  and  gave  a  dangerous  brill- 


196  A  SLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

iancy  to  her  eyes,  two  circumstances  not 
unnoticed  nor  unappreciated  by  her  two 
guests.  But  instead  of  reuniting  them,  the 
prettier  Mrs.  Tucker  became,  the  more  dis- 
tant and  reserved  grew  the  men,  until  Don 
Jose*  rose  before  his  usual  hour,  and  with 
more  than  usual  ceremoniousness  departed. 

"  Then  my  business  does  not  seem  to  be 
with  him  ? "  said  Poindexter,  with  quiet 
coolness,  as  Mrs.  Tucker  turned  her  some- 
what mystified  face  towards  him.  "  Or  have 
you  anything  to  say  to  me  about  him  in 
private?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  both 
mean,"  she  returned  with  a  slight  tremor 
of  voice.  "  I  had  no  idea  you  were  not  on 
good  terms.  I  thought  you  -  were  !  It 's 
very  awkward."  Without  coquetry  and 
unconsciously  she  raised  her  blue  eyes  un- 
der her  lids  until  the  clear  pupils  coyly  and 
softly  hid  themselves  in  the  corners  of  the 
brown  lashes,  and  added,  "  You  have  both 
been  so  kind  to  me." 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  197 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason,"  said  Poin- 
dexter,  gravely.  But  Mrs.^Tucker  refused 
to  accept  the  suggestion  with  equal  gravity, 
and  began  to  laugh.  The  laugh,  which  was 
at  first  frank,  spontaneous,  and  almost 
child-like,  was  becoming  hysterical  and  ner- 
vous as  she  went  on,  until  it  was  suddenly 
checked  by  Poindexter. 

"I  have  had  no  difficulties  with  Don 
Jose  Santierra,"  he  said,  somewhat  coldly 
ignoring  her  hilarity,  "  but  perhaps  he  is 
not  inclined  to  be  as  polite  to  the  friend  of 
the  husband  as  he  is  to  the  wife." 

"  Mr.  Poindexter !  "  said  Mrs.  Tucker 
quickly,  her  face  becoming  pale  again. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  said  Poindexter, 
flushing ;  "  but  "  — 

"You  want  to  say,"  she  interrupted 
coolly,  "  that  you  are  not  friends,  I  see.  Is 
that  the  reason  why  you  have  avoided  this 
house  ?  "  she  continued  gently. 

"  I  thought  I  could  be  of  more  service  to 
you  elsewhere,"  he  replied  evasively.  "  I 


198  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

have  been  lately  following  up  a  certain 
clue  rather  closely.  I  think  I  am  on  the 
track  of  a  confidante  of  —  of  —  that  wo- 
man." 

A  quick  shadow  passed  over  Mrs.  Tuck- 
er's face.  "  Indeed  !  "  she  said  coldly. 
u  Then  I  am  to  believe  that  you  prefer  to 
spend  your  leisure  moments  in  looking 
after  that  creature  to  calling  here  ?  " 

Poindexter  was  stupefied.  Was  this  the 
woman  who  only  four  months  ago  was  al- 
most vindictively  eager  to  pursue  her  hus- 
band's paramour  !  There  could  be  but  one 
answer  to  it  —  Don  Jos£  !  Four  months 
ago  he  would  have  smiled  compassionately 
at  it  from  his  cynical  preeminence.  Now 
he  managed  with  difficulty  to-stifle  the  bit- 
terness of  his  reply. 

"  If  you  do  not  wish  the  inquiry  carried 
on,"  he  began,  "  of  course  "  — 

"I?  What  does  it  matter  to  me  ?  "  she 
said  coolly.  "  Do  as  you  please." 

Nevertheless,  half  an   hour  later,  as  he 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  199 

was  leaving,  she  said,  with  a  certain  hesitat- 
ing timidity,  "  Do  not  leave  me  so  much 
alone  here,  and  let  that  woman  go." 

This  was  not  the  only  unlooked-for  se- 
quel to  her  innocent  desire  to  propitiate 
her  best  friends.  Don  Josd  did  not  call 
again  upon  his  usual  day,  but  in  his  place 
came  Dona  Clara,  his  younger  sister. 
When  Mrs.  Tucker  had  politely  asked  af- 
ter the  absent  Don  Jose*,  Dona  Clara  wound 
her  swarthy  arms  around  the  fair  Ameri- 
can's waist  and  replied,  "  But  why  did  you 
send  for  the  abogado  Poindexter  when  my 
brother  called  ?  " 

"  But  Captain  Poindexter  calls  as  one  of 
my  friends,"  said  the  amazed  Mrs.  Tucker. 
"  He  is  a  gentleman,  and  has  been  a  soldier 
and  an  officer,"  she  added  with  some 
warmth. 

"Ah,  yes,  a  soldier  of  the  law,  what 
you  call  an  oficial  de  policia,  a  chief  of 
gendarmes,  my  sister,  but  not  a  gentleman 
—  a  camarero  to  protect  a  lady." 


200  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

Mrs.  Tucker  would  have  uttered  a  hasty 
reply,  but  the  perfect  and  good-natured 
simplicity  of  Dona  Clara  withheld  her. 
Nevertheless,  she  treated  Don  Josd  with  a 
certain  reserve  at  their  next  meeting,  until 
it  brought  the  simple-minded  Castilian  so 
dangerously  near  the  point  of  demanding 
an  explanation  which  implied  too  much 
that  she  was  obliged  to  restore  him  tempo- 
rarily to  his  old  footing.  Meantime  she 
had  a  brilliant  idea.  She  would  write  to 
Calhoun  Weaver,  whom  she  had  avoided 
since  that  memorable  day.  She  would  say 
she  wished  to  consult  him.  He  would  come 
to  Los  Cuervos;  he  might  suggest  some- 
thing to  lighten  this  weary  waiting ;  at 
least  she  would  show  them  all  that  she  had 
still  old  friends.  Yet  she  did  not  dream 
of  returning  to  her  Blue  Grass  home ;  her 
parents  had  died  since  she  left ;  she  shrank 
from  the  thought  of  dragging  her  ruined 
life  before  the  hopeful  youth  of  her  girl- 
hood's companions. 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  201 

Mr.  Calhoun  Weaver  arrived  promptly, 
ostentatiously,  oracularly,  and  cordially, 
but  a  little  coarsely.  He  had  —  did  she  re- 
member ?  —  expected  this  from  the  first. 
Spencer  had  lost  his  head  through  vanity, 
and  had  attempted  too  much.  It  required 
foresight  and  firmness,  as  he  himself  — 
who  had  lately  made  successful  "  combina- 
tions "  which  she  might  perhaps  have  heard 
of  —  well  knew.  But  Spencer  had  got  the 
"  big  head."  "  As  to  that  woman  —  a  dev- 
ilish handsome  woman  too  !  —  well,  every- 
body knew  that  Spencer  always  had  a 
weakness  that  way,  and  he  would  say  — 
but  if  she  didn't  care  to  hear  any  more 
about  her  —  well,  perhaps  she  was  right. 
That  was  the  best  way  to  take  it."  Sitting 
before  her,  prosperous,  weak,  egotistical, 
incompetent,  unavailable,  and  yet  filled 
with  a  vague  kindliness  of  intent,  Mrs. 
Tucker  loathed  him.  A  sickening  percep- 
tion of  her  own  weakness  in  sending  for 
him,  a  new  and  aching  sense  of  her  utter 


202  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

isolation  and  helplessness,  seemed  to  para- 
lyze her. 

"  Nat 'rally  you  feel  bad,"  he  continued, 
with  the  large  air  of  a  profound  student  of 
human  nature.  "  Nat'rally,  nat'rally  you  're 
kept  in  an  uncomfortable  state,  not  know- 
ing jist  how  you  stand.  There  ain't  but 
one  thing  to  do.  Jist  rise  up,  quiet  like, 
and  get  a  divorce  agin  Spencer.  Hold  on  ! 
There  ain't  a  judge  or  jury  in  Califor- 
nia that  would  n't  give  it  to  you  right  off 
the  nail,  without  asking  questions.  Why, 
you  'Id  get  it  by  default  if  you  wanted  to ; 
you  'Id  just  have  to  walk  over  the  course ! 
And  then,  Belle,"  he  drew  his  chair  still 
nearer  her,  "  when  you  've  settled  down 
again  —  well !  —  I  don't  -mind  renewing 
that  offer  I  once  made  ye,  before  Spencer 
ever  came  round  ye  —  I  don't  mind,  Belle, 
I  swear  I  don't !  Honest  Injin !  I  'm  in 
earnest,  there  's  my  hand  !  " 

Mrs.  Tucker's  reply  has  not  been  re- 
corded. Enough  that  half  an  hour  later 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  203 

Mr.  Weaver  appeared  in  the  courtyard 
with  traces  of  tears  on  his  foolish  face,  a 
broken  falsetto  voice,  and  other  evidence  of 
mental  and  moral  disturbance.  His  cordi- 
ality and  oracular  predisposition  remained 
sufficiently  to  enable  him  to  suggest  the 
magical  words  "  Blue  Grass  "  mysteriously 
to  Concha,  with  an  indication  of  his  hand 
to  the  erect  figure  of  her  pale  mistress  in 
the  doorway,  who  waved  to  him  a  silent 
but  half-compassionate  farewell. 

At  about  this  time  a  slight  change  in  her 
manner  was  noticed  by  the  few  who  saw 
her  more  frequently.  Her  apparently  in- 
vincible girlishness  of  spirit  had  given  way 
to  a  certain  matronly  seriousness.  She  ap- 
plied herself  to  her  household  cares  and  the 
improvement  of  the  hacienda  with  a  new 
sense  of  duty  and  a  settled  earnestness,  un- 
til by  degrees  she  wrought  into  it  not  only 
her  instinctive  delicacy  and  taste,  but  part 
of  her  own  individuality.  Even  the  rude 
rancheros  and  tradesmen  who  were  per- 


204  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

mitted  to  enter  the  walls  in  the  exercise  ot 
their  calling  began  to  speak  mysteriously 
of  the  beauty  of  this  garden  of  the  almarjal. 
She  went  out  but  seldom,  and  then  accom- 
panied by  the  one  or  the  other  of  her 
female  servants,  in  long  drives  on  unfre- 
quented roads.  On  Sundays  she  sometimes 
drove  to  the  half-ruined  mission  church  of 
Santa  Inez,  and  hid  herself,  during  mass, 
in  the  dim  monastic  shadows  of  the  choir. 
Gradually  the  poorer  people  whom  she  met 
in  these  journeys  began  to  show  an  almost 
devotional  reverence  for  her,  stopping  in 
the  roads  with  uncovered  heads  for  her  to 
pass,  or  making  way  for  her  in  the  tienda 
or  plaza  of  the  wretched  town  with  dumb 
courtesy.  She  began  to  -  feel  a  strange 
sense  of  widowhood,  that,  while  it  at  times 
brought  tears  to  her  eyes,  was  not  without 
a  certain  tender  solaoe.  In  the  sympathy 
and  simpleness  of  this  impulse  she  went  as 
far  as  to  revive  the  mourning  she  had  worn 
for  her  parents,  but  with  such  a  fatal  ac- 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  205 

centing  of  her  beauty,  and  dangerous  mis- 
interpreting of  her  condition  to  eligible 
bachelors  strange  to  the  country,  that  she 
was  obliged  to  put  it  off  again.  Her  re- 
serve and  dignified  manner  caused  others  to 
mistake  her  nationality  for  that  of  the  San- 
tierras,  and  in  "  Dona  Bella  "  the  simple 
Mrs.  Tucker  was  for  a  while  forgotten.  At 
times  she  even  forgot  it  herself.  Accus- 
tomed now  almost  entirely  to  the  accents  of 
another  language  and  the  features  of  another 
race,  she  would  sit  for  hours  in  the  corridor, 
whose  massive  bronzed  inclosure  even  her 
tasteful  care  could  only  make  an  embow- 
ered mausoleum  of  the  Past,  or  gaze  ab- 
stractedly from  the  dark  embrasures  of  her 
windows  across  the  stretching  almarjal  to 
the  shining  lagoon  beyond  that  terminated 
the  estuary.  She  had  a  strange  fondness 
for  this  tranquil  mirror,  which  under  sun 
or  stars  always  retained  the  passive  reflex 
of  the  sky  above,  and  seemed  to  rest  her 
weary  eyes.  She  had  objected  to  one  of 


206  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

the  plans  projected  by  Poindexter  to  re- 
deem the  land  and  deepen  the  water  at  the 
embarcadero,  as  it  would  have  drained  the 
lagoon,  and  the  lawyer  had  postponed  the 
improvement  to  gratify  her  fancy.  So  she 
kept  it  through  the  long  summer  unchanged 
save  by  the  shadows  of  passing  wings  or 
the  lazy  files  of  sleeping  sea-fowl. 

On  one  of  these  afternoons  she  noticed  a 
slowly  moving  carriage  leave  the  high  road 
and  cross  the  almarjal  skirting  the  edge  of 
the  lagoon.  If  it  contained  visitors  for  Los 
Cuervos  they  had  evidently  taken  a  shorter 
cut  without  waiting  to  go  on  to  the  regular 
road  which  intersected  the  highway  at 
right  angles  a  mile  farther  on.  It  was  with 
some  sense  of  annoyance  and  irritation  that 
she  watched  the  trespass,  and  finally  saw 
the  vehicle  approach  the  house.  A  few 
moments  later  the  servant  informed  her 
that  Mr.  Patterson  would  like  to  see  her 
alone.  When  she  entered  the  corridor, 
which  in  the  dry  season  served  as  a  recep- 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  207 

tion  hall,  she  was  surprised  to  see  that  Pat- 
terson was  not  alone.  Near  him  stood  a 
well-dressed  handsome  woman,  gazing  about 
her  with  good-humored  admiration  of  Mrs. 
Tucker's  taste  and  ingenuity. 

"  It  don't  look  much  like  it  did  two 
years  ago,"  said  the  stranger  cheerfully. 
"  You  Ve  improved  it  wonderfully." 

Stiffening  slightly,  Mrs.  Tucker  turned 
inquiringly  to  Mr.  Patterson.  But  that 
gentleman's  usual  profound  melancholy  ap- 
peared to  be  intensified  by  the  hilarity  of 
his  companion.  He  only  sighed  deeply  and 
rubbed  his  leg  with  the  brim  of  his  hat  in 
gloomy  abstraction. 

"  Well !  go  on,  then,"  said  the  woman, 
laughing  and  nudging  him.  "  Go  on  —  in- 
troduce me  —  can't  you  ?  Don't  stand  there 
like  a  tombstone.  You  won't  ?  Well,  I  '11 
introduce  myself."  She  laughed  again,  and 
then,  with  an  excellent  imitation  of  Patter- 
son's lugubrious  accents,  said,  "  Mr.  Spen- 
cer Tucker's  wife  that  ?'*,  allow  me  to  intro- 


208  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE, 

duce  you  to  Mr.  Spencer  Tucker's  sweet- 
heart that  was  !  Hold  on  !  I  said  that  was. 
For  true  as  I  stand  here,  ma'am  —  and  I 
reckon  I  would  n't  stand  here  if  it  was  n't 
true  —  I  have  n't  set  eyes  on  him  since  the 
day  he  left  you." 

"It  's  the  Gospel  truth,  every  word," 
said  Patterson,  stirred  into  a  sudden  activ- 
ity by  Mrs.  Tucker's  white  and  rigid  face. 
"  It 's  the  frozen  truth,  and  I  kin  prove  it. 
For  I  kin  swear  that  when  that  there  young 
woman  was  sailin'  outer  the  Golden  Gate, 
Spencer  Tucker  was  in  my  bar  room ;  I  kin 
swear  that  I  fed  him,  lickered  him,  give 
him  a  hoss  and  set  him  in  his  road  to  Mon- 
terey that  very  night." 

"Then,  where  is  he  now?"  said  Mrs. 
Tucker,  suddenly  facing  them. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  then 
looked  at  Mrs.  Tucker.  Then  both  to- 
gether replied  slowly  and  in  perfect  unison, 
"  That 's — what — we  — want  —  to — know." 
They  seemed  so  satisfied  with  this  effect 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  209 

that  they  as  deliberately  repeated,  "  Yes  — 
that 's  —  what  —  we  —  want  —  to — know." 

Between  the  shock  of  meeting  the  part- 
ner of  her  husband's  guilt  and  the  unex- 
pected revelation  to  her  inexperience,  that 
in  suggestion  and  appearance  there  was 
nothing  beyond  the  recollection  of  that  guilt 
that  was  really  shocking  in  the  woman  — 
between  the  extravagant  extremes  of  hope 
and  fear  suggested  by  their  words,  there 
was  something  so  grotesquely  absurd  in 
the  melodramatic  chorus  that  she  with  dif- 
ficulty suppressed  a  hysterical  laugh. 

"That's  the  way  to  take  it,"  said  the 
woman,  putting  her  own  good-humored  in- 
terpretation upon  Mrs.  Tucker's  expression. 
"  Now,  look  here !  I  '11  tell  you  all  about 
it."  She  carefully  selected  the  most  com- 
fortable chair,  and  sitting  down,  lightly 
crossed  her  hands  in  her  lap.  "  Well,  I 
left  here  on  the  13th  of  last  January  on 
the  ship  Argo,  calculating  that  your  hus- 
band would  join  the  ship  just  inside  the 

14 


210  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

Heads.  That  was  our  arrangement,  but  if 
anything  happened  to  prevent  him,  he  was 
to  join  me  in  Acapulco.  Well !  He  did  n't 
come  aboard,  and  we  sailed  without  him. 
But  it  appears  now  he  did  attempt  to  join 
the  ship,  but  his  boat  was  capsized.  There, 
now,  don't  be  alarmed !  he  was  n't  drowned, 
as  Patterson  can  swear  to  —  no,  catch  him  ! 
not  a  hair  of  him  was  hurt ;  but  I —  I  was 
bundled  off  to  the  end  of  the  earth  in 
Mexico,  alone,  without  a  cent  to  bless  me. 
For  true  as  you  live,  that  hound  of  a  cap- 
tain, when  he  found,  as  he  thought,  that 
Spencer  was  nabbed,  he  just  confiscated  all 
his  trunks  and  valuables  and  left  me  in  the 
lurch.  If  I  had  n't  met  a  man  down  there 
that  offered  to  marry  me  a.ud  brought  me 
here,  I  might  have  died  there,  I  reckon. 
But  I  did,  and  here  I  am.  I  went  down 
there  as  your  husband's  sweetheart,  I  've 
come  back  as  the  wife  of  an  honest  man, 
and  I  reckon  it 's  about  square  !  " 

There  was  something  so  startlingly  frank, 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  211 

so  hopelessly  self-satisfied,  so  contagiously 
good-humored  in  the  woman's  perfect  moral 
unconsciousness,  that  even  if  Mrs.  Tucker 
had  been  less  preoccupied  her  resentment 
would  have  abated.  But  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  gloomy  face  of  Patterson,  who 
was  beginning  to  unlock  the  sepulchres  of 
his  memory  and  disinter  his  deeply  buried 
thoughts. 

"  You  kin  bet  your  whole  pile  on  what 
this  Mrs.  Capting  Baxter  —  ez  used  to  be 
French  Inez  of  New  Orleans  —  hez  told  ye. 
Ye  kin  take  everything  she  's  onloaded. 
And  it 's  only  doin'  the  square  thing  to  her 
to  say,  she  hain't  done  it  out  o'  no  cussed- 
ness,  but  just  to  satisfy  herself,  now  she  's  a 
married  woman  and  past  such  foolishness. 
But  that  ain't  neither  here  nor  there.  The 
gist  of  the  whole  matter  is  that  Spencer 
Tucker  was  at  the  tienda  the  day  after  she 
sailed  and  after  his  boat  capsized."  He 
then  gave  a  detailed  account  of  the  inter- 
view, with  the  unnecessary  but  truthful 


212  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

minutiae  of  his  class,  adding  to  the  particu- 
lars already  known  that  the  following  week 
he  visited  the  Summit  House  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  Spencer  had  never  been 
there,  nor  had  he  ever  sailed  from  Monterey. 

"  But  why  was  this  not  told  to  me  be- 
fore ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  suddenly.  "  Why 
not  at  the  time  ?  Why,"  she  demanded  al- 
most fiercely,  turning  from  the  one  to  the 
other,  "  has  this  been  kept  from  me  ?  " 

"  1 11  tell  ye  why,"  said  Patterson,  sink- 
ing with  crushed  submission  into  a  chair. 
"  When  I  found  he  was  n't  where  he  ought 
to  be,  I  got  to  lookin'  elsewhere.  I  knew 
the  track  of  the  hoss  I  lent  him  by  a  loose 
shoe.  I  examined,  and  found  he  had  turned 
off  the  high  road  somewhere  beyond  the 
lagoon,  jist  as  if  he  was  makin'  a  bee  line 
here." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  breathlessly. 

"  Well,"  said  Patterson,  with  the  re- 
signed tone  of  an  accustomed  martyr, 
"mebbe  I  'm  a  God-forsaken  idiot,  but  I 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  213 

reckon  he  did  come  yer.  And  mebbe  I  'ra 
that  much  of  a  habitooal  lunatic,  but  think- 
ing so,  I  calkilated  you  'Id  know  it  without 
tellin'." 

With  their  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  Mrs. 
T  ticker  felt  the  quick  blood  rush  to  her 
cheeks,  although  she  knew  not  why.  But 
they  were  apparently  satisfied  with  her 
ignorance,  for  Patterson  resumed,  yet  more 
gloomily :  — 

"  Then  if  he  was  n't  hidin'  here  be- 
knownst  to  you,  he  must  have  changed 
his  mind  agin  and  got  away  by  the  embar- 
cadero.  The  only  thing  wantin'  to  prove 
that  idea  is  to  know  how  he  got  a  boat, 
and  what  he  did  with  the  hoss.  And 
thar  's  one  more  idea,  and  ez  that  can't  be 
proved,"  continued  Patterson,  sinking  his 
voice  still  lower,  kt  mebbe  it 's  accordin'  to 
God's  laws." 

Unsympathetic  to  her  as  the  speaker  had 
always  been  and  still  was,  Mrs.  Tucker  felt 
a  vague  chill  creep  over  her  that  seemed  to 


214  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

be  the  result  of  his  manner  more  than  his 
words.  "  And  that  idea  is  .  .  .  ?  "  she  sug- 
gested with  pale  lips. 

"It's  this!  Fust,  I  don't  say  it  means 
much  to  anybody  but  me.  T  've  heard  of 
these  warnings  afore  now,  ez  comin'  only  to 
folks  ez  hear  them  for  themselves  alone, 
and  I  reckon  I  kin  stand  it,  if  it 's  the  will 
o'  God.  The  idea  is  then — that  —  Spencer 
Tucker  —  was  drownded  in  that  boat;  the 
idea  is"  —  his  voice  was  almost  lost  in  a 
hoarse  whisper  —  "  that  it  was  no  living 
man  that  kem  to  me  that  night,  but  a  spirit 
that  kem  out  of  the  darkness  and  went  back 
into  it !  No  eye  saw  him  but  mine  —  no 
ears  beard  him  but  mine.  I  reckon  it  were 
n't  intended  it  should."  He  paused,  and 
passed  the  flap  of  his  hat  across  his  eyes. 
"  The  pie,  you  '11  say,  is  agin  it,"  he  con- 
tinued in  the  same  tone  of  voice,  —  "  the 
whiskey  is  agin  it  —  a  few  cuss  words  that 
dropped  from  him,  accidental  like,  may 
have  been  agin  it.  All  the  same  they  mout 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE..  215 

have  been  only  the  little  signs  and  tokens 
that  it  was  him." 

But  Mrs.  Baxter's  ready  laugh  some- 
what rudely  dispelled  the  infection  of  Pat- 
terson's gloom.  "  I  reckon  the  only  spirit 
was  that  which  you  and  Spencer  consumed," 
she  said,  cheerfully.  "  I  don't  wonder  you 
're  a  little  mixed.  Like  as  not  you  Ve  mis- 
understood his  plans."  Patterson  shook  his 
head.  "  He  '11  turn  up  yet,  alive  and  kick- 
ing !  Like  as  not,  then,  Poindexter  knows 
where  he  is  all  the  time." 

"  Impossible  I  He  would  have  told  me," 
said  Mrs.  Tucker,  quickly. 

Mrs.  Baxter  looked  at  Patterson  without 
speaking.  Patterson  replied  by  a  long  lu- 
gubrious whistle. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Tucker,  drawing  back  with  cold  dignity. 

"  You  don't  ?  "  returned  Mrs.  Baxter. 
"  Bless  your  innocent  heart !  Why  was  he 
so  keen  to  hunt  me  up  at  first,  shadowing 
my  friends  and  all  that,  and  why  has  he 


216  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

dropped  it  now  lie  knows  I  'm  here,  if  he 
did  n't  know  where  Spencer  was  ?  " 

"  I  can  explain  that,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Tucker,  hastily,  with  a  blush  of  confusion. 
"  That  is  —  I "  — 

"  Then  mebbe  you  kin  explain  too," 
broke  in  Patterson  with  gloomy  signifi- 
cance, "why  he  has  bought  up  most  of 
Spencer's  debts  himself,  and  perhaps  you 
're  satisfied  it  is  n't  to  hold  the  whip  hand 
of  him  and  keep  him  from  coming  back 
openly.  Pr'aps  you  know  why  he 's  movin' 
heaven  and  earth  to  make  Don  Jose  San- 
tierra  sell  the  ranch,  and  why  the  Don  don't 
see  it  all." 

"Don  Jose*  sell  Los  Cuervos!  Buy  it, 
you  mean  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tucker.  "  /offered 
to  sell  it  to  him." 

Patterson  arose  from  the  chair,  looked 
despairingly  around  him,  passed  his  hand 
sadly  across  his  forehead,  and  said :  "  It 's 
come  !  I  knew  it  would.  It 's  the  warn- 
ing !  It 's  suthing  betwixt  jim-jams  and 


A  SLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  217 

doddering  idjiocy.  Here  I  'd  hev  been 
willin'  to  swear  that  Mrs.  Baxter  here  told 
me  she  had  sold  this  yer  ranch  nearly  two 
years  ago  to  Don  Jose,  and  now  you  "  — 

"  Stop ! "  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  in  a  voice 
that  chilled  them. 

She  was  standing  upright  and  rigid,  as  if 
stricken  to  stone.  "  I  command  you  to  tell 
me  what  this  means  !  "  she  said,  turning 
only  her  blazing  eyes  upon  the  woman. 

Even  the  ready  smile  faded  from  Mrs. 
Baxter's  lips  as  she  replied  hesitatingly  and 
submissively :  "  I  thought  you  knew  already 
that  Spencer  had  given  this  ranch  to  me. 
I  sold  it  to  Don  Jose  to  get  the  money  for 
us  to  go  away  with.  It  was  Spencer's 
idea  "  — 

"  You  lie  !  "  said  Mrs.  Tucker. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  The  wrath- 
ful blood  that  had  quickly  mounted  to  Mrs. 
Baxter's  cheek,  to  Patterson's  additional 
bewilderment,  faded  as  quickly.  She  did 
not  lift  her  eyes  again  to  Mrs.  Tucker's, 


218  A  BLUE  GEASS  PENELOPE. 

but,  slowly  raising  herself  from  her  seat, 
said,  "  I  wish  to  God  I  did  lie ;  but  it 's 
true.  And  it  V  true  that  I  never  touched 
a  cent  of  the  money,  but  gave  it  all  to 
him  !  "  She  laid  her  hand  on  Patterson's 
arm,  and  said,  "  Come !  let  us  go,"  and  led 
him  a  few  steps  towards  the  gateway.  But 
here  Patterson  paused,  and  again  passed  his 
hand  over  his  melancholy  brow.  The  ne- 
cessity of  coherently  and  logically  closing 
the  conversation  impressed  itself  upon  his 
darkening  mind.  "  Then  you  don't  happen 
to  have  heard  anything  of  Spencer  ?  "  he 
said  sadly,  and  vanished  with  Mrs.  Baxter 
through  the  gate. 

Left  alone  to  herself,  Mrs.  Tucker  raised 
her  hands  above  her  head  wijbh  a  little  cry, 
interlocked  her  rigid  fingers,  and  slowly 
brought  her  palms  down  upon  her  upturned 
face  and  eyes,  pressing  hard  as  if  to  crush 
out  all  light  and  sense  of  life  before  her. 
She  stood  thus  for  a  moment  motionless 
and  silent,  with  the  rising  wind  whispering 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  219 

without  and  flecking  her  white  morning 
dress  with  gusty  shadows  from  the  arbor. 
Then,  with  closed  eyes,  dropping  her  hands 
to  her  breast,  still  pressing  hard,  she  slowly 
passed  them  down  the  shapely  contours  of 
her  figure  to  the  waist,  and  with  another 
cry  cast  them  off  as  if  she  were  stripping 
herself  of  some  loathsome  garment.  Then 
she  walked  quickly  to  the  gateway,  looked 
out,  returned  to  the  corridor,  unloosening 
and  taking  off  her  wedding-ring  from  her 
finger  as  she  walked.  Here  she  paused, 
then  slowly  and  deliberately  rearranged  the 
chairs  and  adjusted  the  gay-colored  rugs 
that  draped  them,  and  quietly  reentered 
her  chamber. 

Two  days  afterwards  the  sweating  steed 
of  Captain  Poindexter  was  turned  loose  in 
the  corral,  and  a  moment  later  the  captain 
entered  the  corridor.  Handing  a  letter  to 
the  decrepit  Concha,  who  seemed  to  be  ut- 
terly disorganized  by  its  contents,  and  the 


220  A  SLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

few  curt  words  with  which  it  was  delivered, 
he  gazed  silently  upon  the  vacant  bower, 
still  fresh  and  redolent  with  the  delicacy 
and  perfume  of  its  graceful  occupant,  until 
his  dark  eyes  filled  with  unaccustomed 
moisture.  But  his  reverie  was  interrupted 
by  the  sound  of  jingling  spurs  without, 
and  the  old  humor  struggled  back  in  his 
eyes  as  Don  Jose  impetuously  entered.  The 
Spaniard  started  back,  but  instantly  recov- 
ered himself. 

"  So,  I  find  you  here.  Ah  !  it  is  well !  " 
he  said  passionately,  producing  a  letter 
from  his  bosom.  "  Look !  Do  you  call  this 
honor?  Look  how  you  keep  your  com- 
pact !  " 

Poindexter  coolly  took  the- letter.  It  con- 
tained a  few  words  of  gentle  dignity  from 
Mrs.  Tucker,  informing  Don  Jose*  that  she 
had  only  that  instant  learned  of  his  just 
claims  upon  Los  Cuervos,  tendering  him  her 
gratitude  for  his  delicate  intentions,  but 
pointing  out  with  respectful  firmness  that 


A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE.  221 

he  must  know  that  a  moment's  further  ac- 
ceptance of  his  courtesy  was  impossible. 

u  She  has  gained  this  knowledge  from 
no  word  of  mine,"  said  Poindexter,  calmly. 
"  Right  or  wrong,  I  have  kept  my  promise 
to  you.  I  have  as  much  reason  to  accuse 
you  of  betraying  my  secret  in  this,"  he 
added  coldly,  as  he  took  another  letter 
from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  Don  Jose. 

It  seemed  briefer  and  colder,  but  was 
neither.  It  reminded  Poindexter  that  as 
he  had  again  deceived  her  she  must  take 
the  government  of  her  affairs  in  her  own 
hands  henceforth.  She  abandoned  all  the 
furniture  and  improvements  she  had  put 
in  Los  Cuervos  to  him,  to  whom  she  now 
knew  she  was  indebted  for  them.  She 
could  not  thank  him  for  what  his  habitual 
generosity  impelled  him  to  do  for  any 
woman,  but  she  could  forgive  him  for  mis- 
understanding her  like  any  other  woman, 
perhaps  she  should  say,  like  a  child.  When 
he  received  this  she  would  be  already  on 


222  A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE. 

her  way  to  her  old  home  in  Kentucky, 
where  she  still  hoped  to  be  able  by  her  own 
efforts  to  amass  enough  to  discharge  her 
obligations  to  him. 

"  She  does  not  speak  of  her  husband,  this 
woman,"  said  Don  Jose*,  scanning  Poindex- 
ter's  face.  "  It  is  possible  she  rejoins  him, 
eh?" 

"  Perhaps  in  one  way  she  has  never  left 
him,  Don  Jose,"  said  Poindexter,  with 
grave  significance. 

Don  Jose's  face  flushed,  but  he  returned 
carelessly,  "  And  the  rancho,  naturally  you 
will  not  buy  it  now?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  abide  by  my 
offer,"  said  Poindexter,  quietly. 

Don  Jos6  eyed  him  narrowly,  and  then 
said,  "  Ah,  we  shall  consider  of  it." 

He  did  consider  it,  and  accepted  the 
offer.  With  the  full  control  of  the  land, 
Captain  Poindexter's  improvements,  so  in- 
definitely postponed,  were  actively  pushed 
forward.  The  thick  walls  of  the  hacienda 


A  BLUE  GRASS  PENELOPE.  223 

were  the  first  to  melt  away  before  them ; 
the  low  lines  of  corral  were  effaced,  and 
the  early  breath  of  the  summer  trade  winds 
swept  uninterruptedly  across  the  now  lev- 
eled  plain  to  the  embarcadero,  where  a 
newer  structure  arose.  A  more  vivid  green 
alone  marked  the  spot  where  the  crum- 
bling adobe  walls  of  the  casa  had  returned 
to  the  parent  soil  that  gave  it.  The  chan- 
nel was  deepened,  the  lagoon  was  drained, 
until  one  evening  the  magic  mirror  that 
had  so  long  reflected  the  weary  waiting  of 
the  Blue  Grass  Penelope  lay  dull,  dead,  lus- 
treless, an  opaque  quagmire  of  noisome  cor- 
ruption and  decay  to  be  put  away  from 
the  sight  of  man  forever.  On  this  spot  the 
crows,  the  titular  tenants  of  Los  Cuervos, 
assembled  in  tumultuous  congress,  coming 
and  going  in  mysterious  clouds,  or  laboring 
in  thick  and  writhing  masses,  as  if  they 
were  continuing  the  work  of  improvement 
begun  by  human  agency.  So  well  had 
they  done  the  work  that  by  the  end  of  a 


224  A  BLUE   GRASS  PENELOPE. 

week  only  a  few  scattered  white  objects 
remained  glittering  on  the  surface  of  the 
quickly  drying  soil.  But  they  were  the 
bones  of  the  missing  outcast,  Spencer 
Tucker ! 

The  same  spring  a  breath  of  war  swept 
over  a  foul,  decaying  quagmire  of  the  whole 
land,  before  which  such  passing  deeds  as 
these  were  blown  as  vapor.  It  called  men 
of  all  rank  and  condition  to  battle  for  a  na- 
tion's life,  and  among  the  first  to  respond 
were  those  into  whose  boyish  hands  had 
been  placed  the  nation's  honor.  It  returned 
the  epaulets  to  Poindexter's  shoulder  with 
the  addition  of  a  double  star,  carried  him 
triumphantly  to  the  front,  and  left  him,  at 
the  end  of  a  summer's  day  and  a  hard-won 
fight,  sorely  wounded,  at  the  door  of  a  Blue 
Grass  farmhouse.  And  the  woman  who 
sought  him  out  and  ministered  to  his  wants 
said  timidly,  as  she  left  her  hand  in  his,  "'  I 
told  you  I  should  live  to  repay  you." 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR 
MOUNTAIN. 


THEEE  was  little  doubt  that  the  Lone 
Star  claim  was  "played  out."  Not  dug 
out,  worked  out,  washed  out,  but  played 
out.  For  two  years  its  five  sanguine  pro- 
prietors had  gone  through  the  various 
stages  of  mining  enthusiasm ;  had  pros- 
pected and  planned,  dug  and  doubted. 
They  had  borrowed  money  with  hearty 
but  unredeeming  frankness,  established  a 
credit  with  unselfish  abnegation  of  all  re- 
sponsibility, and  had  borne  the  disappoint- 
ment of  their  creditors  with  a  cheerful 
resignation  which  only  the  consciousness 

15 


226    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

of  some  deep  Compensating  Future  could 
give.  Giving  little  else,  however,  a  sin- 
gular dissatisfaction  obtained  with  the 
traders,  and,  being  accompanied  with  a  re- 
luctance to  make  further  advances,  at  last 
touched  the  gentle  stoicism  of  the  proprie- 
tors themselves.  The  youthful  enthusiasm 

which  had  at  first  lifted  the  most  ineffect 

ual  trial,  the  most  useless  essay,  to  the 
plane  of  actual  achievement,  died  out,  leav- 
ing them  only  the  dull^prosawj.  record  of 
half-finished  ditches,  purposeless  shafts,  un- 
tenable pits,  abandoned  engines,  and  mean- 
ingless disruptions  of  the  soil  upon  the 
Lone  Star  claim,  and  empty  flour  sacks  and 
pork  barrels  in  the  Lone  Star  cabin. 

They  had  borne  their  poverty,  if  that  __ 
term  could  be  applied  to  a  light  renuncia- 
tion of  all  superfluities  in  food,  dress,  or 
ornament,  ameliorated  by  the  gentle  depre- 
dations already  alluded  tor  with  unassum- 
ing levity.  More  than  that :  having  segre- 
gated themselves  from  their  fellow-miners 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.  227 

of  Red  Gulch,  and  entered  upon  the  posses- 
sion of  the  little  manzanita-thicketed  valley 
five  miles  away,  the  failure  of  their  enter- 
prise had  assumed  in  their  eyes  only  the 
vague  significance  of  the  decline  and  fall  of 
a  general  community,  and  to  that  extent 
relieved  them  of  individual  responsibility. 
It  was  easier  for  them  to  admit  that  the 
Lone  Star  claim  was  "  played '  out "  than 
confess  to  a  personal  bankruptcy.  -Jklore- 
over,  they  still  retained  the  sacred  right  of 
criticism  of  government,  and  rose  superior 
in  their  private  opinions  to  their  own  col- 
<JeetivF^wisd0»h— -  Each  one  experienced  a 
grateful  sense  of  the  entire  responsibility 
of  the  other  four  in  the  fate  of  their  enter- 
prise. 

On  December  24, 1863,  a  gentle  rain  was 
still  falling  over  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  Lone  Star  claim.  It  had  been  fall- 
ing for  several  days,  had  already  called  a 
faint  spring  color  to  the  wan  landscape,  re- 
pairing with  tender  touches  the  ravages 


228    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

jwrought  by  the  proprietors,  or  charitably 
covering -their,  faute-  The  ragged  seams 
in  gulch  and  canon  lost  their  harsh  out- 
lines, a  thin  green  mantle  faintly  clothed 
the  torn  and  abraded  hillside.  A  few 
weeks  more,  and  a  veil  of  forgetfulness 
would  be  drawn  over  the  feeble  failures 
of  the  Lone  Star  claim.  The  charming 
derelicts  themselves,  listening  to  the  rain- 
drops on  the  roof  of  their  little  cabin,  gazed 
philosophically^ from  the  open  door,  and  ac- 
cepted the  prospect  as  a  moral  discharge 
from  their  obligations.  Four  of  the  five 
partners  were  present.  The  Right  and 
Left  Bowers,  Union  Mills,  and  the  Judge. 
It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  not 
one  of  these  titles  was  the  genuine  name  of 
its  possessor.  The  Right  and  Left  Bow- 
ers were  two  brothers ;  their  sobriquets,  a 
cheerful  adaptation  from  the  favorite  game 
of  euchre,  expressing  their  relative  value 
in  the  camp.  The  saere-fact  that  Union 
Mills  had  at  one  time  patched  his  trousers 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.  229 

with  an  old  flour  sack  legibly  bearing  4h&t 
brand  of  its  fabrication,  was  a  tempting 
baptismal  suggestion  that  the  other  part- 
ners could  not  forego.  The  Judge,  a 
singularly  inequitable  Missourian,  with  no 
knowledge  whatever  of  the  law,  was  an  in- 
spiration of  gratuitous  irony. 

Union  Mills,  who  had  been  for  some  time 
sitting  placidly  on  the  threshold  with  one 
leg  exposed  to  the  rain,  from  a  sheer  indo- 
lent inability  to  change  his  position,  finally 
withdrew  that  weather-beaten  member,  and 
stood  up.  The  movement  more  or  less  de- 
ranged the  attitudes  of  the  other  partners, 
and  was  received  with  cynical  disfavor.  It 
was  somewhat  remarkable  that,  although 
generally  giving  the  appearance  of  healthy 
youth  and  perfect  physical  condition,  they 
one  and  all  simulated  the  decrepitude  of 
age  and  invalidism,  and  after  limping  about 
for  a  few  moments,  settled  back  again  upon 
their  bunks  and  stools  in  their  former  posi- 
tions. The  Left  Bower  lazily  replaced  a 


230    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

bandage  that  he  had  worn  around  his  ankle 
for  weeks  without  any  apparent  necessity, 
and  the  Judge  scrutinized  with  tender  so- 
licitude the  faded  cicatrixrof  a  scratch  upon 
his  arm.  :Ar- -passive  hypochondria,  born 
of  their  isolation,  was  the  last  ludicrously 
pathetic  touch  to  their  situation. 

The  immediate  cause  of  this  commotion 
felt  the  necessity  of  an  explanation. 

"  It  would  have  been  just  as  easy  for  you 
to  have  stayed  outside  with  your  business 
leg,  instead  of  dragging  it  into  private  life 
in  that  obtrusive  way,"  retorted  the  Right 
Bower ;  "  but  that^  exhaustive  effort  is  n't 
going  to  fill  the  pork  barrel.  The  grocery 
man  at  Dalton  says  —  what 's  that  he 
said  ?  "  he  appealed  lazily  t@  the  Judge. 

"  Said  he  reckoned  the  Lone  Star  was 
about  played  out,  and  he  did  n't  want  any 
more  in  his —  thank  you !  "  repeated  the 
Judge  with  a  mechanical  effort  of  memory 
utterly  devoid  of  personal  or  present  in- 
terest. 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    231 

"  I  always  suspected  that  man,  after 
Grimshaw  begun  to  deal  with  him,"  said 
the  Left  Bower.  u  They  're  just  mean 
enough  to  join  hands  against  us."  It  was 
a  fixed  belief  of  the  Lone  Star  partners 
that  they  were  pursued  by  personal  enmi- 
ties. 

"  More  than  likely  those  new  strangers 
over  in  the  Fork  have  been  paying  cash 
and  filled  him  up  with  conceit,"  said  Union 
Mills,  trying  to  dry  his  leg  by  alternately 
beating  it  or  rubbing  it  against  the  cabin 
wall.  "  Once  begin  wrong  with  that  kind 
of  snipe  and  you  drag  everybody  down  with 
you." 

This  vague  conclusion  was  received  with 
dead  silence.  Everybody  had  become  in- 
terested in  the  speaker's  peculiar  method 
of  drying  his  leg,  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
previous  topic.  A  few  offered  criticism,  no 
one  assistance. 

"  Who  did  the  grocery  man  say  that 
to  ?  "  asked  the  Right  Bower,  finally  re- 
turning to  the  question. 


232    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

"  The  Old  Man,"  answered  the  Judge. 

"  Of  course,"  ejaculated  the  Right  Bower 
sarcastically. 

"  Of  course,"  echoed  the  other  partners 
together.  "That's  like  him.  The  Old 
Man  all  over  ! " 

It  did  not  appear  exactly  what  was  like 
the  Old  Man,  or  why  it  was  like  him,  but 
generally  that  he  alone  was  responsible  for 
the  grocery  man's  defection.  It  was  put 
more  concisely  by  Union  Mills. 

"  That  comes  of  letting  him  go  there  ! 
It 's  just  a  fair  provocation  to  any  man  to 
have  the  Old  Man  sent  to  him.  They  can't, 
sorter,  restrain  themselves  at  him.  He  's 
enough  to  spoil  the  credit  of  the  Roths- 
childs.'1 I 

"  That 's  so,"  chimed  in  the  Judge. 
"And  look  at  his  prospecting.  Why,  he 
was  out  two  nights  last  week,  all  night, 
prospecting  in  the  moonlight  for  blind 
leads,  just  out  of  sheer  foolishness." 

"  It  was  quite  enough  for  me,"  broke  in 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    233 

the  Left  Bower,  "  when  the  other  day,  you 
remember  when,  he  proposed  to  us  white 
men  to  settle  down  to  plain  ground  sluicing, 
making  4  grub '  wages  just  like  any  China- 
man. It  just  showed  his  idea  of  the  Lone 
Star  claim." 

"  Well,  I  never  said  it  afore,"  added 
Union  Mills,  "  but  when  that  one  of  the 
Mattison  boys  came  over  here  to  examine 
the  claim  with  an  eye  to  purchasing  it  was 
the  Old  Man  that  took  the  conceit  out  of 
him.  He  just  as  good  as  admitted  that  a 
lot  of  work  had  got  to  be  done  afore  any 
pay  ore  could  be  realized.  Never  even 
asked  him  over  to  the  shanty  here  to  jine 
us  in  a  friendly  game ;  just  kept  him,  so  to 
speak,  to  himself.  And  naturally  the  Mat- 
tisons  did  n't  see  it."  •  jl^4  *^*~ft  ' 

A  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  the 
rain  monotonously  falling  on  the  roof,  and 
occasionally  through  the  broad  adobe  chim- 
ney, where  it  provoked  a  retaliating  hiss 
and  splutter  from  the  dying  embers  of  the 


234    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

hearth.  The  Right  Bower,  with  a  sudden 
access  of  energy,  drew  the  empty  barrel 
before  him,  and  taking  a  pack  of  well-worn 
cards  from  his  pocket,  began  to  make  a 
"  solitaire  "  upon  the  lid.  The  others  gazed 
at  him  with  languid  interest. 

"  Makin'  it  for  any  thin'  ?  "  asked  Mills. 

The  Right  Bower  nodded. 

The  Judge  and  Left  Bower,  who  were 
partly  lying  in  their  respective  bunks,  sat 
up  to  get  a  better  view  of  the  game.  Union 
Mills  slowly  disengaged  himself  from  the 
wall  and  leaned  over  the  "  solitaire  "  player. 
The  Right  Bower  turned  the  last  card  in 
a  pause  of  almost  thrilling  suspense,  and 
clapped  it  down  on  the  lid  with  fateful  em- 
phasis. 

"  It  went !  "  said  the  Judge  in  a  voice  of 
hushed  respect.  "  What  did  you  make  it 
for  ?  "  he  almost  whispered. 

"  To  know  if  we  'd  make  the  break  we 
talked  about  and  vamose  the  ranch.  It's 
ike  fifth  time  to-day,"  continued  the  Right 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    235 

Bower  in  a  voice  of  gloomy  significance. 
"  And  it  went  agin  bad  cards  too." 

"  I  ain't  superstitious,"  said  the  Judge, 
with  awe  andr-^arfcuityJbeaming  from  every 
line  of  his  jcredulous  face,  "  but  it 's  flyin' 
in  the  face  of  Providence  to  go  agin  such 
signs  as  that." 

"  Make  it  again,  to  see  if  the  Old  Man 
must  go,"  suggested  the  Left  Bower. 

The  suggestion  was  received  with  favor, 
the  three  men  gathering  breathlessly  around 
the  player.  Again  the  fateful  cards  were 
shuffled  deliberately,  placed  in  their  mys- 
terious combination,  with  the  same  ominous 
result.  Yet  everybody  seemed  to  breathe 
more  freely,  as  if  relieved  from  some  re- 
sponsibility, the  Judge  accepting  this  mani- 
fest expression  of  Providence  with  resigned 
self-righteousness. 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,"  resumed  the  Left 
Bower,  serenely,  as  if  a  calm  legal  decision 
had  just  been  recorded,  "  we  must  not  let 
any  foolishness  or  sentiment  get  mixed  up 


236    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

with  this  thing,  but  look  at  it  like  business 
men.  The  only  sensible  move  is  to  get  up 
and  get  out  of  the  camp." 

"  And  the  Old  Man?  "  queried  the  Judge. 

"  The  Old  Man  —  hush  !  he 's  coming." 

The  doorway  was  darkened  by  a  slight 
lissome  shadow.  It  was  the  absent  part- 
ner, otherwise  known  as  uthe  Old  Man." 
Need  it  be  added  that  he  was  a  boy  of  nine- 
teen, with  a  slight  down  just  clothing  his 
upper  lip ! 

"The  creek  is  up  over  the  ford,  and  I 
had  to  '  shin '  up  a  willow  on  the  bank 
and  swing  myself  across,"  he  said,  with  a 
quick,  frank  laugh ;  "  but  all  the  same, 
boys,  it's  going  to  clear  up  in  about  an 
hour,  you  bet.  It's  breaking  away  over 
Bald  Mountain,  and  there 's  a  sun  flash  on 
a  bit  of  snow  on  Lone  Peak.  Look !  you 
can  see  it  from  here.  It 's  for  all  the  world 
like  Noah's  dove  just  landed  on  Mount  Ara- 
rat. It 's  a  good  omen." 

From  sheer  force  of  habit  the  men  had 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    287 

momentarily  brightened  up  at  the  Old 
Man's  entrance.  But  the  unblushing- ex- 
hibition of  degrading  superstition  shown  in 
the  last  sentence  recalled  their  just  sever- 
ity.. They  exchanged  meaning  glances. 
Union  Mills  uttered  hopelessly  to  himself  : 
"Hell's  full  of  such  omens." 

Too  occupied  with  his  subject  to  notice 
this  ominous  reception,  the  Old  Man  con- 
tinued :  "  I  reckon  I  struck  a  fresh  lead  in 
the  new  grocery  man  at  the  Crossing.  He 
says  he  '11  let  the  Judge  have  a  pair  of  boots 
on  credit,  but  he  can't  send  them  over  here ; 
and  considering  that  the  Judge  has  got  to 
try  them  anyway,  it  don't  seem  to  be  ask- 
ing too  much  for  the  Judge  to  go  over 
there.  He  says  he  '11  give  us  a  barrel  of 
pork  and  a  bag  of  flour  if  we  '11  give  him 
the  right  of  using  our  tail-race  and  clean 
out  the  lower  end  of  it." 

"  It 's  the  work  of  a  Chinaman,  and  a 
four  days'  job,"  broke  in  the  Left  Bower. 

"  It  took  one  white  man  only  two  hours 


238    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

to  clean  out  a  third  of  it,"  retorted  the  Old 
Man  triumphantly,  "for  I  pitched  in  at 
once  with  a  pick  he  let  me  have  on  credit, 
and  did  that  amount  of  work  this  morning, 
and  told  him  the  rest  of  you  boys  would 
finish  it  this  afternoon." 

A  slight  gesture  from  the  Right  Bower 
checked  an  angry  exclamation  from  the 
Left.  The  Old  Man  did  not  notice  either, 
but,  knitting  his  smooth  young  brow  in 
a  paternally  reflective  fashion,  went  on: 
"  You  '11  have  to  get  a  new  pair  of  trousers, 
Mills,  but  as  he  does  n't  keep  clothing, 
we  '11  have  to  get  some  canvas  and  cut  you 
out  a  pair.  I  traded  off  the  beans  he  let 
me  have  for  some  tobacco  for  the  Right 
Bower  at  the  other  shop,  and,  got  them  to 
throw  in  a  new  pack  of  cards.  These  are 
about  played  out.  We  '11  be  wanting  some 
brushwood  for  the  fire  ;  there  's  a  heap  in 
the  hollow.  Who 's  going  to  bring  it  in  ? 
It 's  the  Judge's  turn,  is  n't  it  ?  Why, 
what 's  the  matter  with  you  all  ?  " 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    239 

The  restraint  and  evident  uneasiness  of 
his  companions  had  at  last  touched  him. 
He  turned  his  frank  young  eyes  upon  them ; 
they  glanced  helplessly  at  each  other.  -J5Fefr 
his  fipslfconcern  was  for  them,  his  first  in- 
stinct paternjd  anjLproteeting.  He  ran  his 
eyes  quickly  over  them  ;  they  were  all 
there  and  apparently  in  their  usual  condi- 
tion. "  Anything  wrong  with  the  claim  ?  " 
he  suggested. 

Without  looking  at  him  the  Right  Bower 
rose,  leaned  against  the  open  door  with  his 
hands  behind  him  and  his  face  towards  the 
landscape,  and  said,  apparently  to  the  dis- 
tant prospect  :  "  The  claim  's  played  out, 
the  partnership  's  played  out,  and  the  sooner 
we  skedaddle  out  of  this  the  better.  If," 
he  added,  turning  to  the  Old  Man,  "  if  you 
want  to  stay,  if  you  want  to  do  Chinaman's 
work  at  Chinaman's  wages,  if  you  want  to 
hang  on  to  the  charity  of  the  traders  at 
the  Crossing,  you  can  do  it,  and  enjoy  the 
prospects  and  the  Noah's  doves  alone.  But 
we  're  calculatin'  to  step  out  of  it." 


240    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

"But  I  haven't  said  I  wanted  to  do  it 
alone"  protested  the  Old  Man  with  a  ges- 
ture of  bewilderment. 

"  If  these  are  your  general  ideas  of  the 
partnership,"  continued  the  Right  Bower, 
clinging  to  the  established  hypothesis  of 
the  other  partners  for  support;  "it  ain't 
ours,  and  the  only  way  we  can  prove  it  is 
to  stop  the  foolishness  right  here.  We 
calculated  to  dissolve  the  partnership  and 
strike  out  for  ourselves  elsewhere.  You  're 
no  longer  responsible  for  us,  nor  we  for 
you.  And  we  reckon  it 's  the  square  thing 
to  leave  you  the  claim  and  the  cabin,  and 
all  it  contains.  To  prevent  any  trouble 
with  the  traders,  we  Ve  drawn  up  a  paper 
here  "  — 

"  With  a  bonus  of  fifty  thousand  dollars 
each  down,  and  the  rest  to  be  settled  on 
my  children,"  interrupted  the  Old  Man, 
with  a  half-uneasy  laugh.  "  Of  course. 
But"  —  he  stopped  suddenly,  the  blood 
dropped  from  his  fresh  cheek,  and  he  again 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    241 

glanced  quickly  round  the  group.  "  I  don't 
think  —  I  —  I  quite  sale,  boys,"  he  added, 
with  a  slight  tremor  of  voice  and  lip.  "  If 
it 's  a  conundrum,  ask  me  an  easier  one." 

Any  lingering  doubt  he  might  have  had 
of  their  meaning  was  dispelled  by  the  Judge. 
"  It 's  about  the  softest  thing  you  kin  drop 
into,  Old  Man,"  he  said  confidentially;  "if 
/  had  n't  promised  the  other  boys  to  go 
with  them,  and  if  I  did  n't  need  the  best 
medical  advice  in  Sacramento  for  my  lungs, 
I  'd  just  enjoy  staying  with  you." 

"  It  gives  a  sorter  freedom  to  a  young 
fellow  like  you,  Old  Man,  like  goin1  into 
the  world  on  your  own  capital,  that  every 
Calif ornian  boy  hasn't  got,"  said  Union 
Mills,  patronizingly. 

"Of  course  it's  rather  hard  papers  on 
us,  you  know,  givin'  up  everything,  so  to 
speak  ;  but  it 's  for  your  good,  and  we  ain't 
goin'  back  on  you,"  said  the  Left  Bower, 
"  are  we,  boys  ?  " 

The  color  had  returned  to  the  Old  Man's 

16 


242    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

face  a  little  more  quickly  and  freely  than 
usual.  He  picked  up  the  hat  he  had  cast 
down,  put  it  on  carefully  over  his  brown 
curls,  drew  the  flap  down  on  the  side  to- 
wards his  companions,  and  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  "  All  right,"  he  said,  in 
a  slightly  altered  voice.  "  When  do  you 
go?" 

"  To-day,"  answered  the  Left  Bower. 
"  We  calculate  to  take  a  moonlight  pasear 
over  to  the  Cross  Roads  and  meet  the  down 
stage  at  about  twelve  to-night.  There's 
plenty  of  time  yet,"  he  added,  with  a  slight 
laugh ;  "  it 's  only  three  o'clock  now." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Even  the 
rain  withheld  its  continuous  patter,  a  dumb, 
gray  film  covered  the*  ashes  of  the  hushed 
hearth.  For  the  first  time  the  Right  Bower 
exhibited  some  slight  embarrassment. 

"  I  reckon  it 's  held  up  for  a  spell,"  he 
said,  ostentatiously  examining  the  weather, 
"  and  we  might  as  well  take  a  run  round 
the  claim  to  see  if  we  Ve  forgotten  nothing. 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    243 

Of  course,  we  '11  be  back  again,"  he  added 
hastily,  without  looking  at  the  Old  Man, 
"before  we  go,  you  know." 

The  others  began  to  look  for  their  hats, 
but  so  awkwardly  and  with  such  evident 
preoccupation  of  mind  that  it  was  not  at 
first  discovered  that  the  Judge  had  his  al- 
ready on.  This  raised  a  laugh,  as  did  also 
a  clumsy  stumble  of  Union  Mills  against 
the  pork  barrel,  although  that  gentleman 
took  refuge  from  his  confusion  and  secured 
a  decent  retreat  by  a  gross  exaggeration  of 
his  lameness,  as  he  limped  after  the  Right 
Bower.  The  Judge  whistled  feebly.  The 
Left  Bower,  in  a  more  ambitious  effort  to 
impart  a  certain  gayety  to  his  exit,  stopped 
on  the  threshold  and  said,  as  if  in  arch  con- 
fidence to  his  companions,  "  Darned  if  the 
Old  Man  don't  look  two  inches  higher  since 
he  became  a  proprietor,"  laughed  patroniz- 
ingly, and  vanished. 

If  the  newly -made  proprietor  had  in- 
creased in  stature,  he  had  not  otherwise 


244    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

changed  his  demeanor.  He  remained  in 
the  same  attitude  until  the  last  figure  dis- 
appeared behind  the  fringe  of  buckeye  that 
hid  the  distant  highway.  Then  he  walked 
slowly  to  the  fire-place,  and,  leaning  against 
the  chimney,  kicked  the  dying  embers  to- 
gether with  his  foot.  Something  dropped 
and  spattered  in  the  film  of  hot  ashes. 
Surely  the  rain  had  not  yet  ceased ! 

His  high  color  had  already  fled  except 
for  a  spot  on  either  cheek-bone  that  lent  a 
brightness  to  his  eyes.  He  glanced  around 
the  cabin.  It  looked  familiar  and  yet 
strange.  Rather,  it  looked  strange  because 
still  familiar,  -and  therefore  ineorrgrttous, 
with  the  new  atmosphere  that  surround- 
ed it —  discordant  with  the  -echo  of  their 
last  meeting,  and  painfully  accenting  the 
change.  k There  were  the  four  "  bunks,"  or 
sleeping  berths,  of  his  companions,  each  still 
bearing  some  traces  of  the  individuality  of 
its  late  occupant  with  a  dumb  loyalty  that 
seemed  to  make  their  light-hearted  defec- 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.  245 

tion  monstrous.  In  the  dead  ashes  of  the 
Judge's  pipe,  scattered  on  his  shelf,  still 
lived  his  old  fire ;  in  the  whittled  and  carved 
edges  of  the  Left  Bower's  bunk  still  were 
the  memories  of  bygone  days  of  delicious 
indolence;  in  the  bullet -holes  clustered 
round  a  knot  of  one  of  the  beams  there  was 
still  the  record  of  the  Right  Bower's  old- 
time  skill  and  practice ;  in  the  few  engrav- 
ings of  female  loveliness  stuck  upon  each 
headboard  there  were  the  proofs  of  their 
old  extravagant  devotion  —  all  a  mute  pro- 
test to  the  change. 

He  remembered  how  a  fatherless,  truant 
schoolboy  he  had  drifted  into  their  adven- 
turous, nomadic  life,  itself  a  life  of  grown- 
up truancy  like  his  own,  and  became  one 
of  that  gypsy  family.  How  they  had  taken 
the  place  of  relations  and  household  in.  his 
boyish  fancy,  filling  it j^h^th^-tmsiibsian- 
tial  pageantry  of  a  child's  play  at  growrMXp 
existence,  he  knew  only  too  well.  But 
how,  from  being  a  pet  and  protege,  he  had 


246    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

gradually  and  unconsciously  asserted  his 
own  individuality  and  taken  upon  his 
younger  shoulders  not  only  a  poet's  keen 
appreciation  of  that  life,  but  its  actual  re- 
sponsibilities and  half-childish  burdens,  he 
never  suspected.  He  had  fondly  believed 
that  he  was  a  neophyte  in  their  ways,  a 
novice  in  their  charming  faith  and  indolent 
creed,  and  they  had  encouraged  it  ;  now 
their  renunciation  of  that  faith  could  only 
be  an  excuse  for  a  renunciation  of  him. 
The  poetry  that  had  for  two  years  invested 
the  material  and  sometimes  even  mean  de- 
tails of  their  existence  was  too  much  a  part 
of  himself  to  be  lightly  dispelled.  The  les- 
son of  those  ingenuous  moralists  failed,  as 
such  lessons  are  apt  to  fail ;  their  discipline 
provoked  but  did  not  subdue.;  a  rising  in- 
dignation, stirred  by  a  sense  of  injury, 
mounted  to  his  cheek  and  eyes.  It  was 
slow  to  come,  but  was  none  the  less  violent 
that  it  had  been  preceded  by  the  benumb- 
ing shock  of  shame  and  pride. 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.  247 

I  hope  I  shall  not  prejudice  the  reader's 
sympathies  if  my  duty  as  a  simple  chron- 
icler compels  me  to  state,  therefore,  that 
the  sober  second  thought  of  this  gentle 
poet  was  to  burn  down  the  cabin  on  the 
spot  with  all  its  contents.  This  yielded  to 
a  milder  counsel  —  waiting  for  the  return 
of  the  party,  challenging  the  Right  Bower, 
a  duel  to  the  death,  perhaps  himself  the 
victim,  with  the  crushing  explanation  in 
extremis,  "  It  seems  we  are  one  too  many. 
No  matter  ;  it  is  settled  now.  Farewell !  " 
Dimly  remembering,  however,  that  there 
was  something  of  this  in  the  last  well-worn 
novel  they  had  read  together,  and  that  his 
antagonist  might  recognize  it,  or  even 
worse,  anticipate  it  himself,  the  idea  was 
quickly  rejected.  Besides,  the  opportunity-, 
for  an  apotheosis  of  self-sacrifice  was  past. 
Nothing  remained  now  but  to  refuse  the 
proffered  bribe  of  claim  and  cabin  by  letter, 
for  he  must  not  wait  their  return.  He 
tore  a  leaf  from  a  blotted  diary,  begun  and 


248    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

abandoned  long  since,  and  essayed  to  write. 
Scrawl  after  scrawl  was  torn  up,  until  his 
fury  had  cooled  down  to  a  frigid  .third  per- 
sonality. "  Mr.  John  Ford  regrets  to  in- 
form his  late  partners  that  their  tender  of 
house,  of  furniture,"  however,  seemed  too 
inconsistent  with  the  pork-barrel  table  he 
was  writing  on  ;  a  more  eloquent  renunciar- 
tion  of  their  offer  became  frivolous  and 
idiotic  from  a  caricature  of  Union  Mills, 
label  and  all,  that  appeared  suddenly  on 
the  other  side  of  the  leaf ;  and  when  he  at 
last  indited  a  satisfactory  and  impassioned 
exposition  of  his  feelings,  the  legible  adden- 
dum of  "  Oh,  ain't  you  glad  you  're  out  of 
the  wilderness  !  "  —  the  forgotten  first  line 
of  a  popular  song,  which. no  scratching 
would  erase  —  seemed  too  like  an  ironical 
postscript  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment. 
He  threw  aside  his  pen  and  cast  the  dis- 
cordant record  of  past  foolish  pastime  into 
the  dead  ashes  of  the  hearth. 

How  quiet  it  was.    With  the  cessation  of 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.  249 

the  rain  the  wind  too  had  gone  down,  and 
scarcely  a  breath  of  air  came  through  the 
open  door.  He  walked  to  the  threshold 
and  gazed  on  the  hushed  prospect.  In  this 
listless  attitude  he  was  faintly  conscious  of 
a  distant  reverberation,  a  mere  phantom  of 
sound  —  perhaps  the  explosion  of  a  distant 
blast  in  the  hills — that  left  the  silence 
more  marked  and  oppressive.  As  he  turned 
again  into  the  cabin  a  change  seemed  to 
have  come  over  it.  It  already  looked  old 
and  decayed.  The  loneliness  of  years  of 
desertion  seemed  to  have  taken  possession 
of  it ;  the  atmosphere  of  dry  rot  was  in  the 
beams  and  rafters.  To  his  excited  fancy 
the  few  disordered  blankets  and  articles  of 
clothing  seemed  dropping  to  pieces ;  in  one 
of  the  bunks  there  was  a  hideous  resem- 
blance in  the  longitudinal  heap  of  clothing 
to  a  withered  and  mummied  corpse.  So  it 
might  look  in  after  years  when  some  pass- 
ing stranger  —  but  he  stopped.  A  dread 
of  the  place  was  beginning  to  creep  over 


250    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

him ;  a  dread  of  the  days  to  come,  when 
the  monotonous  sunshine  should  lay  bare 
the  loneliness  of  these  walls ;  the  long, 
long  days  of  endless  blue  and  cloudless, 
overhanging  solitude ;  summer  days  when 
the  wearying,  incessant  trade  winds  should 
sing  around  that  empty  shell  and  voice  its 
desolation.  He  gathered  together  hastily 
a  few  article's  that  were  especially  his  own 
—  rather  that  the  free  communion  of  the 
camp,  from  indifference  or  accident,  had 
left  wholly  to  him.  He  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment over  his  rifle,  but,  scrupulous  in  his 
wounded  pride,  turned  away  and  left  the 
familiar  weapon  that  in  the  dark  days  had 
so  often  provided  the  dinner  or  breakfast  of 
the  little  household.  jBairdor*  tjompels  me 
.ie-state~~ttrat  !*his  equipment  was  not  large 
nor  eminently  practical.  His  scant  pack 
was  a  light  weight  for  even  his  young 
shoulders,  but  I  fear  he  thought  more  of 
getting  away  from  the  Past  than  providing 
for  the  Future. 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    251 

With  this  vague  but  sole  purpose  he  left 
the  cabin,  and  almost  mechanically  turned 
his  steps  towards  the  creek  he  had  crossed 
that  morning.  He  knew  that  by  this  route 
he  would  avoid  meeting  his  companions ; 
its  difficulties  and  circuitousness  would  ex- 
ercise his  feverish  limbs  and  give  him  time 
for  reflection.  He  had  determined  to  leave 
the  claim,  but  whence  he  had  not  yet  con- 
sidered. He  reached  the  bank  of  the  creek 
where  he  had  stood  two  hours  before ;  it 
seemed  to  him  two  years.  He  looked  curi- 
ously at  his  reflection  in  one  of  the  broad 
pools  of  overflow,  and  fancied  he  looked 
older.  He  watched  the  rush  a»dr-tmtset 
of  the  -turbid  current  hurrying  to  meet  the 
South  Fork,  and  to  eventually  lose  itself  in 
the  yellow  Sacramento.  Even  in  his  pre- 
occupation he  was  impressed  with  a  like- 
ness to  himself  and  his  companions  in  this 
flood  that  had  burst  its  peaceful  boundaries. 
In  the  drifting  fragments  of  one  of  their 
forgotten  flumes  washed  from  the  bank,  he 


252    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

fancied  he  saw  an  omen  of  the  disintegra- 
tion and  decay  of  the  Lone  Star  claim. 

The  strange  hush  in  the  air  that  he  had 
noticed  before  —  a  calni  so  inconsistent  with 
that  hour  and  the  season  as  to  seem  porten- 
tous —  became  more  marked  in  contrast  to 
the  feverish  rush  of  the  turbulent  water- 
course. -A^few^clottd^ lazily Hucldled  in  the 
west  apparently  had  gone  to  rest  with  the 
sun  on  beds  of  somnolent  poppies.  There 
was  a  gleam  as  of  golden  water  everywhere 
along  the  horizon,  washing  out  the  cold  snow 
peaks,  and  drowning  even  the  rising  moon. 
The  creek  caught  it  here  and  there,  until,  in 
grim  irony,  it  seemed  to  bear  their  broken 
sluice-boxes  and  useless  engines  on  the  very 
Pactolian  stream  they  had  been  hopefully 
created  to  direct  and  carry.  _-Brrtr-£ty  some 
peculiar  trick  of  the  atmosphere,  the  per- 
fect plenitude  of  that  golden  sunset  glory 
was  lavished  on  the  rugged  sides  and 
tangled  crest  of  the  Lone  Star  mountain. 
-3rhat-is01ated  peak,  the  landmark  of  their 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    253 

claim,  the  gaunt  monument  of^tneir  folly, 
transfigured  in  the  evenings-splendor,  kept 
its  radiance  unquenchedf'  long  after  the 
glow  had  fallen  from  the  encompassing 
skies,  and  when/^t  last  the  rising  moon, 
step  by  step,  put;  out  the  fires  along  the 
winding  valley  and  plains,  and  crept  up  the 
bosky  si$3s  of  the  canon,  the  vanishing 
sunset  was  lost  only  to  reappear  as  a  golden 


crown. 


The  eyes  of  the  young  man  were  fixed 
upon  ifc-  with  more  than  a  momentary  pic- 
turesque interest.  It  had  been  the  favorite 
ground  of  his  prospecting  exploits,  its  low- 
est flank  had  been  scarred  in  the  old  enthu- 
siastic days  with  hydraulic  engines,  or 
pierced  with  shafts,  but  its  central  position 
in  the  claim  and  its  superior  height  had  al- 
ways given  it  a  commanding  view  of  the 
extent  of  their  valley  and  its  approaches, 
and  it  was  this  practical  preeminence  that 
alone  attracted  him  at  that  moment.  He 
knew  that  from  its  crest  he  would  be  able 


254    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

to  distinguish  the  figures  of  his  companions, 
as  they  crossed  the  valley  near  the  cabin, 
in  the  growing  moonlight.  Thus  he  could 
avoid  encountering  them  on  his  way  to  the 
high  road,  and  yet  see  them,  perhaps,  for 
the  last  time.  Even  in  his  sense  of  injury 
there  was  a  strange  satisfaction  in  the 
thought. 

The  ascent  was  toilsome,  but  familiar. 
"All  along  the -dim  trail  he  was  accompanied 
by  gentler  memories  of  the  past,  that 
seemed,  like  the  faint  odor  of  spiced  leaves 
and  fragrant  grasses  wet  with  the  rain  and 
crushed  beneath  his  ascending  tread,  to 
exhale  the  sweeter  perfume  in  his  effort 
to  subdue  or  rj&e  above  them.  There  was 
the  thicket  of  manzanita,  wjiere  they  had 
broken  noonday  jDread  together ;  here  was 
the  rock  beside  their  maiden  shaft,  where 
they  had  poured  a  wild  libation  in  boyish 
enthusiasm  of  success ;  and  here  the  ledge 
where  their  first  flag,  a  red  shirt  heroic- 
ally sacrificed,  was  displayed  from  a  long- 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    255 

handled  shovel  to  the  gaze  of  admirers  be- 
low. When  he  at  last  reached  the  summit, 
the  mysterious  hush  was  still  in  the  air,  as 
if  in  breathless  sympathy  with  his  expedi- 
tion. In  the  west,  the  plain  was  faintly 
illuminated,  but  disclosed  no  moving  fig-., 
ures.  He  turned  towards  the  rising  moon,  <-> 
and  moved  slowly  to  the  eastern  edge. 
Suddenly  he  stopped.  Another  step  would 
have  been  his  last !  He  stood  upon  the 
crumbling  edge  of  a  precipice.  A  landslip 
had  taken  place  on  the  eastern  flank,  leav- 
ing the  gaunt  ribs  and  fleshless  bones  of 
Lone  Star  mountain  bare  in  the  moonlight. 
He  understood  now  the  strange  rumble  and 
reverberation  he  had  heard ;  he  understood 
now  the  strange  hush  of  bird  an'd  beast 
in  brake  and  thicket ! 

Although  a  single  rapid  glance  convinced 
him  that  the  slide  had  taken  place  in  an 
unfrequented  part  of  the  mountain,  above 
an  inaccessible  canon,  and  reflection  as- 
sured him  his  companions  could  not  have 


256    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

reached  that  distance  when  it  took  place,  a 
feverish  impulse  led  him  to  descend  a  few 
rods  in  the  track  of  the  avalanche.  The 
frequent  recurrence  of  outcrop  and  angle 
"^made  this  comparatively  easy.  Here  he 
called  aloud ;  the  feeble  echo  of  his  own 
voice  seemed  only  a  dull  impertinence  to 
the  significant  silence.  He  turned  to  reas- 
cend ;  the  furrowed  flank  of  the  mountain 
before  him  lay  full  in  the  moonlight.  To 
his  excited  fancy,  a  dozen  luminous  star- 
like  points  in  the  rocky  crevices  started 
into  life  as  he  faced  them.  Throwing  his 
arm  over  the  ledge  above  him,  he  supported 
himself  for  a  moment  by  what  appeared  to 
be  a  projection  of  the  solid  rock.  It  trem- 
bled slightly.  As  he  raised- himself  to  its 
level,  his  heart  stopped  beating.  It  was 
simply  a  fragment  detached  from  the  out- 
crop, lying  loosely  on  the  ledge  but  up- 
holding him  by  its  own  weight  only.  He 
examined  it  with  trembling  fingers ;  the 
encumbering  soil  fell  from  its  sides  and  left 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    257 

its  smoothed  and  worn  protuberances  glis- 
tening in  the  moonlight.  It  was  virgin 
gold! 

Looking  back  upon  that  moment  after- 
wards, he  remembered  that  he  was  not 
dazed,  dazzled,  or  startled.  It  did  not  come 
to  him  as  a  discovery  or  an  accident,  a 
stroke  of  chance  or  a  caprice  of  fortune. 
He  saw  it  all  in  that  supreme  moment; 
Nature  had  worked  out  their  poor  deduc- 
tion. What  their  feeble  engines  had  es- 
sayed spasmodically  and  helplessly  against 
the  curtain  of  soil  that  hid  the  treasure, 
the  elements  had  achieved  with  mightier 
but  more  patient  forces.  The  slow  sapping 
of  the  winter  rains  had  loosened  the  soil 
from  the  auriferous  rock,  even  while  the 
swollen  stream  was  carrying  their  impotent 
and  shattered  engines  to  the  sea.  What 
mattered  that  his  single  arm  could  not  lift 
the  treasure  he  had  found  ;  what  mattered 
that  to  unfix  those  glittering  stars  would 
still  tax  both  skill  and  patience !  The  work 

17 


258    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

was  done,  the  goal  was  reached !  even  his 
boyish  impatience  was  content  with  that. 
He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  unstrapped  his 
long-handled  shovel  from  his  back,  secured 
it  in  the  crevice,  and  quietly  regained  the 
summit. 

It  was  all  his  own !  His  own  by  right 
of  discovery  under  the  law  of  the  land,  and 
without  accepting  a  favor  from  them.  He 
recalled  even  the  fact  that  it  was  his  pros- 
pecting on  the  mountain  that  first  sug- 
gested the  existence  of  gold  in  the  outcrop 
and  the  use  of  the  hydraulic.  He  had 
never  abandoned  that  belief,  whatever  the 
others  had  done.  He  dwelt  somewhat  in- 
dignantly to  himself  on  this  circumstance, 
and  half  unconsciously  facecl  .defiantly  to- 
wards the  plain  below.  But  it  was  sleep- 
ing peacefully  in  the  full  sight  of  the  moon, 
without  life  or  motion.  He  looked  at  the 
stars,  it  was  still  far  from  midnight.  His 
companions  had  no  doubt  long  since  re- 
turned to  the  cabin  to  prepare  for  their 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.  259 

midnight  journey.  They  were  discussing 
him,  perhaps  laughing  at  him,  or  worse, 
pitying  him  and  his  bargain.  Yet  here 
was  his  bargain  I  A  slight  laugh  he  gave 
vent  to  here  startled  him  a  little,  it  sounded 
so  hard  and  so  unmirthful,  and  so  unlike, 
as  he  oddly  fancied  what  he  really  thought. 
But  what  did  he  think? 

Nothing  mean  or  revengeful ;  no,  they 
never  would  say  that.  When  he  had  taken 
out  all  the  surface  gold  and  put  the  mine 
in  working  order,  he  would  send  them  each 
a  draft  for  a  thousand  dollars.  Of  course, 
if  they  were  ever  ill  or  poor  Ije  would  do 
more.  One  of  the  first,  the  very  first 
things  he  should  do  would  be  to  send  them 
each  a  handsome  gun  and  tell  them  that  he 
only  asked  in  return  the  old-fashioned  rifle 
that  once  was  his.  Looking  back  at  the 
moment  in  after  years,  he  wondered  that, 
with  this  exception,  he  made  no  plans  for 
his  own  future,  or  the  way  he  should  dis- 
pose of  his  newly  acquired  wealth.  This 


260    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

was  the  more  singular  as  it  had  been  the 
custom  of  the  five  partners  to  lie  awake  at 
night,  audibly  comparing  with  each  other 
what  they  would  do  in  case  they  made  a 
strike.  He  remembered  how,  Alnaschar- 
like,  they  nearly  separated  once  over  a  dif- 
ference in  the  disposal  of  a  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  that  they  never  had,  nor  ex- 
pected to  have.  He  remembered  how 
Union  Mills  always  began  his  career  as  a 
millionnaire  by  a  "  square  meal "  at  Del- 
monico's ;  how  the  Right  Bower's  initial 
step  was  always  a  trip  home  "  to  see  his 
mother  ;  "  how  the  Left  Bower  would  im- 
mediately placate  the  parents  of  his  be- 
loved with  priceless  gifts  (it  may  be  par- 
enthetically remarked  that  the*  parents  and 
the  beloved  one  were  as  hypothetical  as  the 
fortune) ;  and  how  the  Judge  would  make 
his  first  start  as  a  capitalist  by  breaking  a 
certain  faro  bank  in  Sacramento.  He  him- 
self had  been  equally  eloquent  in  extrava- 
gant fancy  in  those  penniless  days,  he  who 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    261 

now  was  quite  cold  and  impassive  beside 
the  more  extravagant  reality. 

How  different  it  might  have  been  !  If 
they  had  only  waited  a  day  longer  !  if  they 
had  only  broken  their  resolves  to  him 
kindly  and  parted  in  good  will !  How  he 
would  long  ere  this  have  rushed  to  greet 
them  with  the  joyful  news  !  How  they 
would  have  danced  around  it,  sung  them- 
selves hoarse,  laughed  down  their  enemies, 
and  run  up  the  flag  triumphantly  on  the 
summit  of  the  Lone  Star  Mountain  !  How 
they  would  have  crowned  him  "  the  Old 
Man,"  "the  hero  of  the  camp  !  "  How  he 
would  have  told  them  the  whole  story ; 
how  some  strange  instinct  had  impelled 
him  to  ascend  the  summit,  and  how  an- 
other step  on  that  summit  would  have  pre- 
cipitated him  into  the  canon  !  And  how  — 
but  what  if  somebody  else,  Union  Mills  or 
the  Judge,  had  been  the  first  discoverer? 
Might  they  not  have  meanly  kept  the  secret 
from  him ;  have  selfishly  helped  themselves 
and  done  — 


262    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

"  What  you  are  doing  now." 

The  hot  blood  rushed  to  his  cheek,  as  if 
a  strange  voice  were  at  his  ear.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  could  not  believe  that  it  came  from 
his  own  pale  lips  until  he  found  himself 
speaking.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  tingling  with 
shame,  and  began  hurriedly  to  descend  the 
mountain. 

He  -would  go  to  them,  tell  them  of  his 
discovery,  let  them  give  him  his  share,  and 
leave  them  forever.  It  was  the  only  thing 
to  be  done,  strange  that  he  had  not  thought 
of  it  at  once.  Yet  it  was  hard,  very  hard 
and  cruel  to  be  forced  to  meet  them  again. 
What  had  he  done  to  suffer  this  mortifi- 
cation ?  For  a  moment  he  actually  hated 
this  vulgar  treasure  that  had  .forever  buried 
under  its  gross  ponderability  the  light  and 
careless  past,  and  utterly  crushed  out  the 
poetry  of  their  old,  indolent,  happy  exist- 
ence. 

He  was  sure  to  find  them  waiting  at  the 
Cross  Roads  where  the  coach  came  past.  It 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    263 

was  three  miles  away,  yet  he  could  get 
there  in  time  if  he  hastened.  It  was  a 
wise  and  practical  conclusion  of  his  even- 
ing's work,  a  lame  and  impotent  conclusion 
to  his  evening's  indignation.  No  matter. 
They  would  perhaps  at  first  think  he  had 
come  to  weakly  follow  them,  perhaps  they 
would  at  first  doubt  his  story.  No  matter. 
He  bit  his  lips  to  keep  down  the  foolish 
rising  tears,  but  still  went  blindly  forward. 
He  saw  not  the  beautiful  night,  cradled 
in  the  dark  hills,  swathed  in  luminous 
mists,  and  hushed  in  the  awe  of  its  own 
loveliness  !  Here  and  there  the  moon  had 
laid  her  calm  face  on  lake  and  overflow, 
and  gone  to  sleep  embracing  them,  until 
the  whole  plain  seemed  to  be  lifted  into 
infinite  quiet.  Walking  on  as  in  a  dream, 
the  black,  impenetrable  barriers  of  skirting 
thickets  opened  and  gave  way  to  vague  dis- 
tances that  it  appeared  impossible  to  reach, 
dim  vistas  that  seemed  unapproachable. 
Gradually  he  seemed  himself  to  become  a 


264    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN 

part  of  the  mysterious  night.  He  was  be- 
coming as  pulseless,  as  calm,  as  passionless. 
What  was  that?  A  shot  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  cabin  !  yet  so  faint,  so  echoless, 
so  ineffective  in  the  vast  silence,  that  he 
would  have  thought  it  his  fancy  but  for  the 
strange  instinctive  jar  upon  his  sensitive 
nerves.  Was  it  an  accident,  or  was  it  an 
intentional  signal  to  him  ?  He  stopped ;  it 
was  not  repeated,  the  silence  reasserted  it- 
self, but  this  time  with  an  ominous  death- 
like suggestion.  A  sudden  and  terrible 
thought  crossed  his  mind.  He  cast  aside 
his  pack  and  all  encumbering  weight,  took 
a  deep  breath,  lowered  his  head  and  darted 
like  a  deer  in  the  direction  of  the  chal- 
lenge. 

n. 

The  exodus  of  the  seceding  partners  of 
the  Lone  Star  claim  had  been  scarcely  an 
imposing  one.  For  the  first  five  minutes 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    265 

after  quitting  the  cabin,  the  procession  was 
straggling  and  vagabond.  Unwonted  exer- 
tion had  exaggerated  the  lameness  of  some, 
and  feebleness  of  moral  purpose  had  predis- 
posed the  others  to  obtrusive  musical  ex- 
hibition. Union  Mills  limped  and  whistled 
with  affected  abstraction ;  the  Judge  whis- 
tled and  limped  with  affected  earnestness. 
The  Right  Bower  led  the  way  with  some 
show  of  definite  design  ;  the '  Left  Bower 
followed  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
The  two  feebler  natures,  drawn  together  in 
unconscious  sympathy,  looked  vaguely  at 
each  other  for  support. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  Judge,  suddenly,  as 
if  triumphantly  concluding  an  argument, 
"  there  ain't  anything  better  for  a  young 
fellow  than  independence.  Nature,  so  to 
speak,  points  the  way.  Look  at  the  ani- 
mals." 

"  There  's  a  skunk  hereabouts,"  said 
Union  Mills,  who  was  supposed  to  be 
gifted  with  aristocratically  sensitive  nos- 


266    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

trils,  "  within  ten  miles  of  this  place ;  like 
as  not  crossing  the  Ridge.  It 's  always  my 
luck  to  happen  out  just  at  such  times.  I 
don't  see  the  necessity  anyhow  of  trapes- 
ing round  the  claim  now,  if  we  calculate  to 
leave  it  to-night." 

Both  men  waited  to  observe  if  the  sug- 
gestion was  taken  up  by  the  Right  and 
Left  Bower  moodily  plodding  ahead.  No 
response  following,  the  Judge  shamelessly 
abandoned  his  companion. 

"  You  would  n't  stand  snoopin'  round  in- 
stead of  lettin'  the  Old  Man  get  used  to 
the  idea  alone  ?  No  ;  I  could  see  all  along 
that  he  was  takin'  it  in,  takin'  it  in,  kindly 
but  slowly,  and  I  reckoned  the  best  thing 
for  us  to  do  was  to  git  up  -and  git  until 
he  'd  got  round  it."  The  Judge's  voice  was 
slightly  raised  for  the  benefit  of  the  two 
before  him. 

"  Did  n't  he  say,"  remarked  the  Right 
Bower,  stopping  suddenly  and  facing  the 
others,  "  did  n't  he  say  that  that  new  trader 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    267 

was  goin'  to  let  him  have  some  provisions 
anyway  ?  " 

Union  Mills  turned  appealingly  to  the 
Judge ;  that  gentleman  was  forced  to  re- 
ply, "  Yes ;  I  remember  distinctly  he  said 
it.  It  was  one  of  the  things  I  was  partic- 
ular about  on  his  account,"  responded  the 
Judge,  with  the  air  of  having  arranged  it 
all  himself  with  the  new  trader.  "I  re- 
member I  was  easier  in  my  mind  about  it." 

44  But  didn't  he  say,"  queried  the  Left 
Bower,  also  stopping  short,  "  suthin'  about 
it 's  being  contingent  on  our  doing  some 
work  on  the  race  ?  " 

The  Judge  turned  for  support  to  Union 
Mills,  who,  however,  under  the  hollow  pre- 
tense of  preparing  for  a  long  conference, 
had  luxuriously  seated  himself  on  a  stump. 
The  Judge  sat  down  also,  and  replied,  hesi- 
tatingly, "  Well,  yes  !  Us  or  him." 

"  Us  or  him,"  repeated  the  Right  Bower, 
with  gloomy  irony.  "  And  you  ain't  quite 
clear  in  your  mind,  are  you,  if  you  have  n't 


268    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

done  the  work  already  ?  You  're  just  kill- 
ing yourself  with  this  spontaneous,  promis- 
cuous, and  premature  overwork ;  that  'a 
what 's  the  matter  with  you." 

"  I  reckon  I  heard  somebody  say  suthin' 
about  it 's  being  a  Chinaman's  three-day 
job,"  interpolated  the  Left  Bower,  with 
equal  irony,  "  but  I  ain't  quite  clear  in  my 
mind  about  that." 

"  It  '11  be  a  sorter  distraction  for  the  Old 
Man,"  said  Union  Mills,  feebly  —  "  kinder 
take  his  mind  off  his  loneliness." 

Nobody  taking  the  least  notice  of  the 
remark,  Union  Mills  stretched  out  his  legs 
more  comfortably  and  took  out  his  pipe. 
He  had  scarcely  done  so  when  the  Right 
Bower,  wheeling  suddenly,  -set  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  creek.  The  Left  Bower, 
after  a  slight  pause,  followed  without  a 
word.  The  Judge,  wisely  conceiving  it 
better  to  join  the  stronger  party,  ran  feebly 
after  him,  and  left  Union  Mills  to  bring  up 
a  weak  and  vacillating  rear. 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    269 

Their  course,  diverging  from  Lone  Star 
Mountain,  led  them  now  directly  to  the 
bend  of  the  creek,  the  base  of  their  old 
ineffectual  operations.  Here  was  the  be- 
ginning of  the  famous  tail-race  that  skirted 
the  new  trader's  claim,  and  then  lost  its 
way  in  a  swampy  hollow.  It  was  choked 
with  debris  ;  a  thin,  yellow  stream  that 
once  ran  through  it  seemed  to  have  stopped 
work  when  they  did,  and  gone  into  green- 
ish liquidation. 

They  had  scarcely  spoken  during  this 
brief  journey,  and  had  received  no  other 
explanation  from  the  Right  Bower,  who  led 
them,  than  that  afforded  by  his  mute  ex- 
ample when  he  reached  the  race.  Leaping 
into  it  without  a  word,  he  at  once  began  to 
clear  away  the  broken  timbers  and  drift- 
wood. Fired  by  the  spectacle  of  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  new  and  utterly  frivolous 
game,  the  men  gayly  leaped  after  him,  and 
were  soon  engaged  in  a  fascinating  struggle 
with  the  impeded  race.  The  Judge  forgot 


270    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

his  lameness  in  springing  over  a  broken 
sluice-box ;  Union  Mills  forgot  his  whistle 
in  a  happy  imitation  of  a  Chinese  coolie's 
song.  Nevertheless,  after  ten  minutes  of 
this  mild  dissipation,  the  pastime  flagged  ; 
Union  Mills  was  beginning  to  rub  his  legr 
when  a  distant  rumble  shook  the  earth. 
The  men  looked  at  each  other ;  the  diver- 
sion was  complete ;  a  languid  discussion  of 
the  probabilities  of  its  being  an  earthquake 
or  a  blast  followed,  in  the  midst  of  which 
the  Right  Bower,  who  was  working  a  little 
in  advance  of  the  others,  uttered  a  warning 
cry  and  leaped  from  the  race.  His  com- 
panions had  barely  time  to  follow  before  a 
sudden  and  inexplicable  rise  in  the  waters 
of  the  creek  sent  a  swift  irruption  of  the 
flood  through  the  race.  In  an  instant  its 
choked  and  impeded  channel  was  cleared, 
the  race  was  free,  and  the  scattered  de'bris 
of  logs  and  timber  floated  upon  its  easy 
current.  Quick  to  take  advantage  of  this 
labor-saving  phenomenon,  the  Lone  Star 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    271 

partners  sprang  into  the  water,  and  by  dis- 
entangling and  directing  the  eddying  frag- 
ments completed  their  work. 

"  The  Old  Man  oughter  been  here  to  see 
this,"  said  the  Left  Bower ;  "  it 's  just  one 
o'  them  climaxes  of  poetic  justice  he  's  al- 
ways huntin'  up.  It 's  easy  to  see  what 's 
happened.  One  o'  them  high-toned  shrimps 
over  in  the  Excelsior  claim  has  put  a  blast 
in  too  near  the  creek.  He  's  tumbled  the 
bank  into  the  creek  and  sent  the  back 
water  down  here  just  to  wash  out  our  race. 
That 's  what  I  call  poetical  retribution." 

"  And  who  was  it  advised  us  to  dam  the 
creek  below  the  race  and  make  it  do  the 
thing  ?  "  asked  the  Right  Bower,  moodily. 

"  That  was  one  of  the  Old  Man's  ideas,  I 
reckon,"  said  the  Left  Bower,  dubiously. 

"  And  you  remember,"  broke  in  the 
Judge  with  animation,  "  I  allus  said,  4  Go 
slow,  go  slow.  You  just  hold  o'n  and  suth- 
in'  will  happen.'  And,"  he  added,  trium- 
phantly, "  you  see  suthin'  has  happened. 


272    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

I  don't  want  to  take  credit  to  myself,  but 
I  reckoned  on  them  Excelsior  boys  bein' 
fools,  and  took  the  chances." 

"  And  what  if  I  happen  to  know  that  the 
Excelsior  boys  ain't  blastin'  to-day  ?  "  said 
the  Right  Bower,  sarcastically. 

As  the  Judge  had  evidently  based  his  hy- 
pothesis on  the  alleged  fact  of  a  blast,  he 
deftly  evaded  the  point.  "  I  ain't  saying 
the  Old  Man's  head  ain't  level  on  some 
things ;  he  wants  a  little  more  sabe  of  the 
world.  He  's  improved  a  good  deal  in  eu- 
chre lately,  and  in  poker  —  well !  he  's  got 
that  sorter  dreamy,  listenin'-to-the-angels 
kind  o'  way  that  you  can't  exactly  tell 
whether  he  's  bluffin'  or  has  got  a  full 
hand.  Has  n't  he  ?  "  he  asked,  appealing 
to  Union  Mills. 

But  that  gentleman,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing the  dark  face  of  the  Right  Bower,  pre- 
ferred to  take  what  he  believed  to  be  his 
cue  from  him.  "  That  ain't  the  question," 
he  said  virtuously;  "we  ain't  takin'  this 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    273 

step  to  make  a  card  sharp  out  of  him.  We 
're  not  doin'  Chinamen's  work  in  this  race 
to-day  for  that.  No,  sir  !  We  're  teachin' 
him  to  paddle  his  own  canoe."  Not  finding 
the  sympathetic  response  he  looked  for  in 
the  Right  Bower's  face,  he  turned  to  the  ' 
Left. 

"  I  reckon  we  were  teachin'  him  our  ca- 
noe was  too  full,"  was  the  Left  Bower's 
unexpected  reply.  "  That 's  about  the  size 
of  it." 

The  Right  Bower  shot  a  rapid  glance 
under  his  brows  at  his  brother.  The  latter, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  stared  un- 
consciously at  the  rushing  water,  and  then 
quietly  turned  away.  The  Right  Bower 
followed  him.  "  Are  you  goin'  back  on 
us  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Are  you  ?  "  responded  the  other. 

"No!" 

"  No,  then  it  is,"  returned  the  Left  Bower 
quietly.  The  elder  brother  hesitated  in 
half-angry  embarrassment. 


274  LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

"  Then  what  did  you  mean  by  saying  we 
reckoned  our  canoe  was  too  full  ?  " 

"  Was  n't  that  our  idea  ?  "  returned  the 
Left  Bower,  indifferently.  Confounded  by 
this  practical  expression  of  his  own  unfor- 
mulated  good  intentions,  the  Right  Bower 
was  staggered. 

"  Speakin'  of  the  Old  Man,"  broke  in 
the  Judge,  with  characteristic  infelicity, 
"  I  reckon  he  '11  sort  o'  miss  us,  times  like 
these.  We  were  allers  runnin'  him  and  be- 
devilin'  him,  after  work,  just  to  get  him 
excited  and  amusin',  and  he  '11  kinder  miss 
that  sort  o'  stimulatin'.  I  reckon  we  '11  miss 
it  too,  somewhat.  Don't  you  remember, 
boys,  the  night  we  put  up  that  little  sell  on 
him  and  made  him  believe  we  'd  struck  it 
rich  in  the  bank  of  the  creek,  and  got  him 
so  conceited,  he  wanted  to  go  off  and  settle 
all  our  debts  at  once  ?" 

"  And  how  I  came  bustin'  into  the  cabin 
with  a  pan  full  of  iron  pyrites  and  black 
sand,"  chuckled  Union  Mills,  continuing 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    275 

the  reminiscences,  "  and  how  them  big  gray 
eyes  of  his  nearly  bulged  out  of  his  head. 
Well,  it 's  some  satisfaction  to  know  we  did 
our  duty  by  the  young  fellow  even  in  those 
i  little  things."  He  turned  for  confirmation 
of  their  general  disinterestedness  to  the 
Right  Bower,  but  he  was  already  striding 
away,  uneasily  conscious  of  the  lazy  follow- 
ing of  the  Left  Bower,  like  a  laggard  con- 
science at  his  back.  This  movement  again 
threw  Union  Mills  and  the  Judge  into  fee- 
ble complicity  in  the  rear,  as  the  procession 
slowly  straggled  homeward  from  the  creek. 
Night  had  fallen.  Their  way  lay  through 
the  shadow  of  Lone  Star  Mountain,  deep- 
ened here  and  there  by  the  slight,  bosky 
ridges  that,  starting  from  its  base,  crept 
across  the  plain  like  vast  roots  of  its  swell- 
ing trunk.  The  shadows  were  growing 
blacker  as  the  moon  began  to  assert  itself 
over  the  rest  of  the  valley,  when  the  Right 
Bower  halted  suddenly  on  one  of  these 
ridges.  The  Left  Bower  lounged  up  to 


276    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

him,  and  stopped  also,  while  the  two  oth- 
ers came  up  and  completed  the  group. 

"There's  no  light  in  the  shanty,"  said 
the  Right  Bower  in  a  low  voice,  half  to  him- 
self and  half  in  answer  to  their  inquiring 
attitude.  The  men  followed  the  direction 
of  his  finger.  In  the  distance  the  black 
outline  of  the  Lone  Star  cabin  stood  out 
distinctly  in  the  illumined  space.  There 
was  the  blank,  sightless,  external  glitter  of 
moonlight  on  its  two  windows  that  seemed 
to  reflect  its  dim  vacancy,  empty  alike  of 
light,  and  warmth,  and  motion. 

"  That 's  sing'lar,"  said  the  Judge  in  an 
awed  whisper. 

The  Left  Bower,  by  simply  altering  the 
position  of  his  hands  in  his  trousers'  pock- 
ets, managed  to  suggest  that  he  knew  per- 
fectly the  meaning  of  it,  had  always  known 
it ;  but  that  being  now,  so  to  speak,  in  the 
hands  of  Fate,  he  was  callous  to  it.  This 
much,  at  least,  the  elder  brother  read  in  his 
attitude,  But  anxiety  at  that  moment  was 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.  277 

the  controlling  impulse  of  the  Right  Bower, 
as  a  certain  superstitious  remorse  was  the 
instinct  of  the  two  others,  and  without  heed- 
ing the  cynic,  the  three  started  at  a  rapid 
pace  for  the  cabin. 

They  reached  it  silently,  as  the  moon, 
now  riding  high  in  the  heavens,  seemed  to 
touch  it  with  the  tender  grace  and  hushed 
repose  of  a  tomb.  It  was  with  something 
of  this  feeling  that  the  Right  Bower  softly 
pushed  open  the  door ;  it  was  with  something 
of  this  dread  that  the  two  others  lingered  on 
the  threshold,  until  the  Right  Bower,  after 
vainly  trying  to  stir  the  dead  embers  on 
the  hearth  into  life  with  his  foot,  struck  a 
match  and  lit  their  solitary  candle.  Its 
flickering  light  revealed  the  familiar  inte- 
rior unchanged  in  aught  but  one  thing. 
The  bunk  that  the  Old  Man  had  occupied 
was  stripped  of  its  blankets ;  the  few  cheap 
ornaments  and  photographs  were  gone ;  the 
rude  poverty  of  the  bare  boards  and  scant 
pallet  looked  up  at  them  unrelieved  by  the 


278  LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

bright  face  and  gracious  youth  that  had 
once  made  them  tolerable.  In  the  grim 
irony  of  that  exposure,  their  own  penury 
was  doubly  conscious.  The  little  knapsack, 
the  tea-cup  and  coffee-pot  that  had  hung 
near  his  bed,  were  gone  also.  The  most 
indignant  protest,  the  most  pathetic  of  the 
letters  he  had  composed  and  rejected,  whose 
torn  fragments  still  littered  the  floor,  could 
never  have  spoken  with  the  eloquence  of 
this  empty  space  !  The  men  exchanged  no 
words ;  the  solitude  of  the  cabin,  instead  of 
drawing  them  together,  seemed  to  isolate 
each  one  in  selfish  distrust  of  the  others. 
Even  the  unthinking  garrulity  of  Union 
Mills  and  the  Judge  was  checked.  A  mo- 
ment later,  when  the  Left  Bower  entered 
the  cabin,  his  presence  was  scarcely  noticed. 
The  silence  was  broken  by  a  joyous  ex- 
clamation from  the  Judge.  He  had  dis- 
covered the  Old  Man's  rifle  in  the  corner, 
where  it  had  been  at  first  overlooked.  "  He 
ain't  gone  yet,  gentlemen  —  for  yer  's  his 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.  279 

rifle,"  he  broke  in,  with  a  feverish  return 
of  volubility,  and  a  high  excited  falsetto. 
"  He  would  n't  have  left  this  behind.  No ! 
I  knowed  it  from  the  first.  He  's  just  out- 
side a  bit,  foraging  for  wood  and  water. 
No,  sir !  Coming  along  here  I  said  to 
Union  Mills  —  did  n't  I  ?  —  '  Bet  your  life 
the  Old  Man  's  not  far  off,  even  if  he  ain't 
in  the  cabin.'  Why,  the  moment  I  stepped 
foot "  — 

"  And  I  said  coming  along,"  interrupted 
Union  Mills,  with  equally  reviving  men- 
dacity, "  Like  as  not  he  's  hangin'  round  yer 
and  lyin'  low  just  to  give  us  a  surprise.' 
He  !  ho  !  " 

44  He  's  gone  for  good,  and  he  left  that 
rifle  here  on  purpose,"  said  the  Left  Bower 
in  a  low  voice,  taking  the  weapon  almost 
tenderly  in  his  hands. 

"  Drop  it,  then  ! "  said  the  Right  Bower. 
The  voice  was  that  of  his  brother,  but  sud- 
denly changed  with  passion.  The  two 
other  partners  instinctively  drew  back  in 
alarm. 


280  LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

"  I  '11  not  leave  it  here  for  the  first 
comer,"  said  the  Left  Bower,  calmly,  "  be- 
cause we  Ve  been  fools  and  he  too.  It 's 
too  good  a  weapon  for  that." 

"  Drop  it,  I  say !  "  said  the  Right  Bower, 
with  a  savage  stride  towards  him. 

The  younger  brother  brought  the  rifle  to 
a  half  charge  with  a  white  face  but  a  steady 
eye. 

"  Stop  where  you  are !  "  he  said  collect- 
edly. "Don't  row  with  me,  because  you 
have  n't  either  the  grit  to  stick  .to  your 
ideas  or  the  heart  to  confess  them  wrong. 
"We  Ve  followed  your  lead,  and  —  here  we 
are  !  The  camp  's  broken  up  —  the  Old 
Man  's  gone  —  and  we  're  going.  And  as 
for  the  d— d  rifle  "  - 

"  Drop  it,  do  you  hear !  "  shouted  the 
Right  Bower,  clinging  to  that  one  idea 
with  the  blind  pertinacity  of  rage  and  a 
losing  cause.  "  Drop  it !  " 

The  Left  Bower  drew  back,  but  his 
brother  had  seized  the  barrel  with  both 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    281 

hands.  There  was  a  momentary  struggle, 
a  flash  through  the  half  -  lighted  cabin,  and 
a  shattering  report.  The  two  men  fell 
back  from  each  other ;  the  rifle  dropped  on 
the  floor  between  them. 

The  whole  thing  was  over  so  quickly 
that  the  other  two  partners  had  not  had 
time  to  obey  their  common  impulse  to  sep- 
arate them,  and  consequently  even  now 
could  scarcely  understand  what  had  passed. 
It  was  over  so  quickly  that  the  two  actors 
themselves  walked  back  to  their  places, 
scarcely  realizing  their  own  act. 

A  dead  silence  followed.  The  Judge 
and  Union  Mills  looked  at  each  other  in 
dazed  astonishment,  and  then  nervously 
set  about  their  former  habits,  apparently  in 
that  fatuous  belief  common  to  such  natures, 
that  they  were  ignoring  a  painful  situation. 
The  Judge  drew  the  barrel  towards  him, 
picked  up  the  cards,  and  began  mechan- 
ically to  "make  a  patience."  on  which 
Union  Mills  gazed  ^rith  ostentatious  inter- 


282    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

est,  but  with  eyes  furtively  conscious  of  the 
rigid  figure  of  the  Right  Bower  by  the 
chimney  and  the  abstracted  face  of  the 
Left  Bower  at  the  door.  Ten  minutes  had 
passed  in  this  occupation,  the  Judge  and 
Union  Mills  conversing  in  the  furtive  whis- 
pers of  children  unavoidably  but  fascinat- 
edly present  at  a  family  quarrel,  when  a 
light  step  was  heard  upon  the  crackling 
brushwood  outside,  and  the  bright  panting 
face  of  the  Old  Man  appeared  upon  the 
threshold.  There  was  a  shout  of  joy  ;  in 
another  moment  he  was  half-buried  in  the 
bosom  of  the  Right  Bower's  shirt,  half- 
dragged  into  the  lap  of  the  Judge,  upset- 
ting the  barrel,  and  completely  encompassed 
by  the  Left  Bower  and  Union  Mills.  With 
the  enthusiastic  utterance  of  his  name  the 
spell  was  broken. 

Happily  unconscious  of  the  previous  ex- 
citement that  had  provoked  this  spontane- 
ous unanimity  of  greeting,  the  Old  Man, 
equally  relieved,  at  once  broke  into  a  fever- 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    283 

isli  announcement  of  his  discovery.  He 
painted  the  details,  with,  I  fear,  a  slight 
exaggeration  of  coloring,  due  partly  to  his 
own  excitement,  and  partly  to  justify  their 
own.  But  he  was  strangely  conscious  that 
these  bankrupt  men  appeared  less  elated 
with  their  personal  interest  in  their  stroke 
of  fortune  than  with  his  own  success.  "  I 
told  you  he  'd  do  it,"  said  the  Judge,  with  a 
reckless  unscrupulousness  of  statement  that 
carried  everybody  with  it ;  "  look  at  him ! 
the  game  little  pup."  "  Oh  no  !  he  ain't  the 
right  breed,  is  he  ?  "  echoed  Union  Mills 
with  arch  irony,  while  the  Right  and  Left 
Bower,  grasping  either  hand,  pressed  a 
proud  but  silent  greeting  that  was  half  new 
to  him,  but  wholly  delicious.  It  was  not 
without  difficulty  that  he  could  at  last  pre- 
vail upon  them  to  return  with  him  to  the 
scene  of  his  discovery,  or  even  then  restrain 
them  from  attempting  to  carry  him  thither 
on  their  shoulders  on  the  plea  of  his  previ- 
ous prolonged  exertions.  Once  only  there 


284    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

was  a  momentary  embarrassment.  "  Then 
you  fired  that  shot  to  bring  me  back?" 
said  the  Old  Man,  gratefully.  In  the  awk- 
ward silence  that  followed,  the  hands  of 
the  two  brothers  sought  and  grasped  each 
other,  penitently.  "  Yes,"  interposed  the 
Judge,  with  delicate  tact,  "  ye  see  the  Right 
and  Left  Bower  almost  quarreled  to  see 
which  should  be  the  first  to  fire  for  ye. 
I  disremember  which  did  "  —  "I  never 
touched  the  trigger,"  said  the  Left  Bower, 
hastily.  With  a  hurried  backward  kick, 
the  Judge  resumed,  "  It  went  off  sorter 
spontaneous." 

The  difference  in  the  sentiment  of  the 
procession  that  once  more  issued  from  the 
Lone  Star  cabin  did  not  fail  to-  show  itself 
in  each  individual  partner  according  to  his 
temperament.  The  subtle  tact  of  Union 
Mills,  however,  in  expressing  an  awakened 
respect  for  their  fortunate  partner  by  ad- 
dressing him,  as  if  unconsciously,  as  "  Mr. 
Ford  "  was  at  first  discomposing,  but  even 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    285 

.this  was  forgotten  in  their  breathless  ex- 
citement as  they  neared  the  base  of  the 
mountain.  When  they  had  crossed  the 
creek  the  Right  Bower  stopped  reflectively. 

"  You  say  }7ou  heard  the  slide  come  down 
before  you  left  the  cabin  ?  "  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  the  Old  Man. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  did  not  know  then  what  it ' 
was.    It  was  about  an  hour  and  a  half  after 
you  left,"  was  the  reply. 

"Then  look  here,  boys,"  continued  the 
Right  Bower  with  superstitious  exultation  ; 
"  it  was  the  slide  that  tumbled  into  the 
creek,  overflowed  it,  and  helped  us  clear 
out  the  race  !  " 

It  seemed  so  clear  that  Providence  had 
taken  the  partners  of  the  Lone  Star  di- 
rectly in  hand  that  they  faced  the  toilsome 
ascent  of  the  mountain  with  the  assurance 
of  conquerors.  They  paused  only  on  the 
summit  to  allow  the  Old  Man  to  lead  the 
way  to  the  slope  that  held  their  treasure. 
He  advanced  cautiously  to  the  edge  of  the 


286    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

crumbling  cliff,  stopped,  looked  bewildered, 
advanced  again,  and  then  remained  white 
and  immovable.  In  an  instant  the  Right 
Bower  was  at  his  side. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter  ?  Don't  —  don't 
look  so,  Old  Man,  for  God's  sake !  " 

The  Old  Man  pointed  to  the  dull,  smooth, 
'  black  side  of  the  mountain,  without  a  crag, 
break,  or  protuberance,  and  said  with  ashen 
lips :  — 

"It's  gone!" 

And  it  was  gone !  A  second  slide  had 
taken  place,  stripping  the  flank  of  the 
mountain,  and  burying  the  treasure  and 
the  weak  implement  that  had  marked  its 
side  deep  under  a  chaos  of  rock  and  debris 
at  its  base. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  The  blank  faces  of  his 
companions  turned  quickly  to  the  Right 
Bower.  "  Thank  God  !  "  he  repeated,  with 
his  arm  round  the  neck  of  the  Old  Man. 
"  Had  he  stayed  behind  he  would  have 


LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN.    287 

been  buried  too."  He  paused,  and,  point- 
ing solemnly  to  the  depths  below,  said, 
"  And  thank  God  for  showing  us  where  we 
may  yet  labor  for  it  in  hope  and  patience 
like  honest  men." 

The  men  silently  bowed  their  heads  and 
slowly  descended  the  mountain.  But  when 
they  had  reached  the  plain  one  of  them 
called  out  to  the  others  to  watch  a  star  that 
seemed  to  be  rising  and  moving  towards 
them  over  the  hushed  and  sleeping  valley. 

"  It 's  only  the  stage  coach,  boys,"  said 
the  Left  Bower,  smiling ;  "  the  coach  that 
was  to  take  us  away." 

In  the  security  of  their  new-found  frater- 
nity they  resolved  to  wait  and  see  it  pass. 
As  it  swept  by  with  flash  of  light,  beat 
of  hoofs,  and  jingle  of  harness,  the  only 
real  presence  in  the  dreamy  landscape, 
the  driver  shouted  a  hoarse  greeting  to 
the  phantom  partners,  audibla  only  to  the 
Judge,  who  was  nearest  the  vehicle. 

"  Did  you  hear  —  did  you  hear  what  he 


288    LEFT  OUT  ON  LONE  STAR  MOUNTAIN. 

said,  boys  ?  "  he  gasped,  turning  to  his  com- 
panions. "  No  !  Shake  hands  all  round, 
boys  !  God  bless  you  all,  boys  !  To  think 
we  did  n't  know  it  all  this  while  !  " 

"  Know  what  ?  " 

"  Merry  Christmas  !  " 


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